


In Sickness and In Health

by kali_asleep



Series: Vows [1]
Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Bad Puns, Caretaking, Comfort, F/M, Falling In Love, Fevers, Fluff, Forehead Kisses, Kissing, Sickness, Soup, Wow, much fluff, sickness/comfort, that trope, yes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-10 05:16:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5572366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kali_asleep/pseuds/kali_asleep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not everyday you see a girl passed out on a roof in the middle of the night. But when that girl is a certain Marinette Dupain-Cheng, well, there's not much else Chat Noir can do but help her, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. bedside manner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1.6.15 - Update - Edited for weirdly missing line...

Being flattened by one thousand elephants would be better than this.

Being seared by a flame-throwing, spatula-wielding akumatized chef would be better than this.

Hell, being smothered by Chloé in his _sleep_ would be better than this.

“If you’re going to whine so much, you could at least pair it with some cheese,” Plagg sniffs. 

The kwami swoops over so that Adrien can see as well as hear his disdain: Plagg crosses his tiny arms and rolls his eyes. In response, Adrien weakly bats him out of the way and reaches for another tissue. The past twelve hours have found him waging war against his fiercest of foes; upon the battlefield of his bed are strewn the crumpled forms of the fallen. Adrien glares at Plagg the best he can as he blows his nose, hard.

“Traitor,” Adrien says, “No sympathy for your best friend and charge.”

When he speaks, it sounds like he’s talking through pudding - he can't tell if it's because his nose is so clogged, or if it’s that his ears haven't stopped ringing, but it’s uncomfortable nonetheless. His whole mouth feels thick, tacky. Breathing through his nose ceased to be an option hours ago, but fortunately Plagg had stopped tossing bits of cheese and paper past his parted lips any time he’s attempted sleep.

Plagg shrugs at his complaint. “It’s hard to be sympathetic when you do dumb stuff. You fully deserve this, you know.”

“I knoooooow,” he moans, flopping over so he can continue grousing into his pillow. 

“You’re still going to do it though, aren’t you?”

It hurts to swallow, but Adrien can't help it. Through the haze of cold medicine and a barely-beaten-back fever he knows the choice he’s made is the right one. That doesn't make him any less nervous about it.

“Yeah.”

“And you’re going to drag me along too, huh?” Plagg asks, like he doesn't already know the answer.

“I can't do it without Chat Noir.”

“What makes you think I'll agree, sicky?”

“You love watching me make an idiot out of myself, Plagg.”

“Eh, fair enough.”

…

He’d love to say it was all her fault, but he knows better.

…

More than likely, Adrien picks it up when he agrees to go with Marinette to visit Nino. 

It’s December, and cold and flu season had struck the city with a vengeance. Mid-way through the week finds half of Adrien’s class out sick, and a quarter of the students who do stumble into class are only just recovering. Most of the teachers (or, at least, those who weren't sick) had given up on teaching much, instead putting together seemingly endless pages of review questions for upcoming exams. With every class turned into an extended study hall, it’s not long before Adrien loses focus and starts doing a count. Nino’s seat is empty, making it a total of seven in their class who didn't make it to school. Chloé had texted him the night before to inform him that she would not be in class for the rest of the week despite feeling perfectly fine, and that if he wanted to stay well she was _sure_ her father could convince his father to let him skip class and study at her place instead. For once, his father being out of the country had provided a perfect excuse to decline.

Returning to an empty house at lunch is the last thing Adrien wants, but with Nino sick he has no one to drag him out to a cafe instead. Eating a lonely Prêt sandwich in the classroom lacks appeal as well. 

“A-Adrien?”

The soft voice from behind him almost fails to pierce his thoughts, and it’s sheer luck that he doesn't startle once he processes he’s being spoken to. He turns to Marinette. She’s alone in the table behind him - Alya had been gone the day before, too - and won't meet his eyes when she starts speaking again. 

“You see, my exam review, it- I was going to get it back but, I mean, you can use it if you, well, not like you _need_ it or anything, I just, euh, I need it more than the floor and well…” Marinette’s wreck of a sentence swerves from confusing to nonsensical, and Adrien is totally lost until she glances at him, glances to the ground below his desk, points a finger and offers a wide, apologetic smile.

A sheet of paper had slid off of her desk and under his; Adrien strings together what she'd been trying to ask and leans over to pick it up. As she’d implied, it’s her exam review, over half-finished. Little paw prints and ladybug doodles dot the left margin of her page, and Adrien feels a grin light his face when he hands the paper back. _Cute_.

Marinette fumbles through a thanks that is mostly coherent, though she’s unsuccessful at masking her blush. She’s got to be the shyest person Adrien has ever met. Without another word, she literally buries her face in her textbook.

That’s when it hits him. 

“Marinette, since Alya and Nino are sick, would you like to get lunch?”

The textbook Marinette had been holding falls to her desk with a thud. A few students look up from their work at the interruption, and Adrien swears he hears a titter from Juleka and Rose in the back. Marinette turns tomato and manages about as many words as one. He’d hate to admit it, but he’s conflicted: it bothers him that Marinette would be so uncomfortable around him, and he’d like to know why, one day, but it was undeniably adorable when she attempted to hide her flush behind her hands. So, Adrien offers his softest front page smile and asks, “Or do you have plans already? I shouldn't have just assumed.”

“Yes!” she exclaims, and there go Rose and Juleka again with the giggling, “I mean, no! Well, I mean, you, I would love y- Love to go with you, lunch, yes, but I _promisedNinoI’dbringhimsoupsincehe’ssick_!”

Adrien picks out ‘Nino’, ‘soup’, and ‘sick’, which is enough for him to Tetris what she’s saying. It’s then he notices the large zippered bag next to her desk - a thermal food bag, he’s willing to bet. 

Taking a slow, deep breath, Marinette meets his eyes.

“Ah, w-would you like to come?”

“Of course!”

He can't say no to the most put together sentence Marinette’s managed all day, especially if it means seeing his friend. There’s a needling of guilt - Adrien should have thought of visiting Nino, or at least offered to bring him food - but it’s swept away with the radiant smile Marinette sends him. In his mind, he adds ‘kindest person he’s ever met’ to Marinette’s qualifiers.

“Great!” Marinette squeaks.

“Great!” he confirms.

“Great!”

“Yeah, great.” 

Adrien has no control over the chuckle that slips out when Marinette yelps and hides behind her book once more.

...

It doesn't strike Adrien as unusual that he’s never been to Nino’s until Marinette is leading him through the lobby of the complex and upstairs to his best friend’s apartment. She raps at the door but only waits a moment before turning the knob and letting herself in. 

“Nino!” she calls, “It’s Marinette, and I brought a surprise!”

“Is it a quick and painless death?” Nino gurgles from a room Adrien can’t see yet, “Because I could really go for one of those right now.”

Marinette giggles and rolls her eyes. She reaches for Adrien’s arm to guide him, then yanks back as if burned. Red overtakes her face again, and through a creole of sputtering and gesture directs Adrien to Nino’s room. Hoisting the food bag higher up on her shoulder, Marinette then flees to the kitchen.

“Adrieeeeen!” Nino calls as he enters the room. If Adrien were to have designed Nino’s bedroom, it would have been a near-replica to what he sees now: neon-bright concert posters and more laptops and speaker wires than he’s ever seen in one place. Only Nino’s face and a single fist peep out from under a lime green comforter. Adrien completes the fist bump.

“Good to see you, dude. Careful, I'm contagious.”

Adrien doesn't doubt it - it sounds like Nino is chewing peanut butter and swallowing gravel all at the same time. 

“Contagious? I just assumed you were slacking on school!” he says with a laugh. Sick or not, he’d take seeing his best friend over going home any day of the week. Settling into Nino’s desk chair, Adrien spins himself around the room a couple of times while he catches Nino up on what he’s missed in class (very little).

Nino’s halfway through describing one of his surreal, likely cough medicine-induced dreams ( _it was_ crazy _, dude, I had a giant bubble wand and everything_ ) when Adrien launches himself and the chair across the room with an epic effort. All too late does he spot Marinette, steaming bowl of soup in her hands, coming through the doorway and right into his rolling path. 

When Adrien thinks about it later (and he does, later, after he’s seen the strong lines of her calves and felt the muscle hiding under her shirt), he can't quite explain how the lunch hour didn't end in tragedy and a lapful of hot soup. Marinette had been right there, too close for him to react and stop. But she nonetheless dodges, and he’s left with the impression of a dance: the swing of a hip, a quick backstep, a turn of the heel, the shifting of the bowl. He sees each individual motion, but the speed makes it impossible to blend into something that makes sense. 

“Are you okay?” they blurt in unison, though clearly neither have been bumped or rolled over or spilled upon. For as often as Marinette seems to lose the ability to speak around him, her apologies are strong and clear. It is Adrien who devolves into stammering, though the heat that rises to his cheeks is without doubt from how stuffy Nino’s room has become.

“Mari, Mari, one more second without your soup and I’ll diiiiiie, dude,” Nino says. He falls back onto his pillows pathetically and pouts at them both.

“Hello to you too, Nino,” she says, voice flat but lips curled into a smirk. Marinette passes the soup - every undisturbed drop - off to Nino and leans against his desk. 

Nino hums a hello through his first bites of soup. A sigh of satisfaction comes a moment later.

“Alya and Ivan weren't kidding, this soup is a godsend,” he says, “Though I don't know how you haven't gotten sick yet. Is there anyone out that hasn't had Dr. Dupain-Cheng come by?”

She squirms a little in place at that, casting her gaze to the floor. But it’s not out of bashfulness, Adrien realizes - her tell-tale blush is absent. No, the hesitation is more from-

“Chloé,” Marinette mutters and then, a little louder, “But don't worry about me - I've got a strong immune system!”

“And don't worry about Chloé, either,” Adrien says, “She’s not sick. She’s at home, trying to avoid getting sick.”

Nino pauses mid-slurp to scoff at that, and Adrien sees the guilt ebb from Marinette’s expression. The bottom lip she’d been worrying at comes free, and she stands a little straighter. For the second time today, Marinette's kindness surprises him. It's no secret that when it comes to Marinette, Chloé tends to get particularly nasty, and more than once he's seen Marinette snap back. Despite that, Marinette still felt bad about not coming by Chloé’s to visit. Unreal.

Equally unreal?

The way Marinette then looks straight at Adrien, holds steady, and says, “Thank you.”

He’s not sure he’s ever noticed how blue her eyes are.

“So, Mari,” Nino starts. Both startle and turn back to the owner of the room. “Taking Adrien out for lunch after this? That little restaurant about a block from Alya’s has gyros. They’re his favorite.”

Unprovoked, Nino shoots Marinette a pointed wink. Adrien can't help but feel a tug of annoyance at being interrupted, though he has no idea what there was to interrupt in the first place.

…

They get gyros - Nino is right, after all - and trudge back to school for the second half of the day. Even with his best efforts, Adrien manages to coax exactly six sentences out of her once they leave Nino’s, and about four of them are so completely mangled that he’s still not sure what she’d said.

Throughout the day Adrien prompts conversation. He doesn't always get complete responses, but it’s worth watching her brows furrow and her cheeks puff when she starts fumbling her words. _Cute_ worms its way onto his growing list of ways to describe Marinette.

She’s doing better talking to him by the end of the day, but that’s when her sniffles start.

…

“I'm so sorry, Chat.”

From the other end of the communicator, Ladybug stifles a sneeze, only to have it turn into an ugly cough. The screen built into his baton is just large enough for him to see that her nose is raw, red enough to almost match her mask. 

“No worries, My Lady. The people of Paris will be safe in the capable claws of Chat Noir.”

Ladybug chuckles through her congestion and smiles warmly. Suddenly he thinks he must be the one who has a fever. 

“The people of Paris had better watch out, then!” she says, “Chat Noir is going to be un _chat_ peroned.”

Chat doesn't care that he'd get sick - he’d kiss her without question if she were there. And if she allowed him to. He flashes her a Cheshire grin and a salute.

“Keep at it and you might put me out of the job!”

“Then you'd really be an alley cat, _Chaton_.”

Between scaling rooftops on patrol and coordinating their battles against akuma, they almost never get a chance simply to _talk_. Perhaps it’s because there’s no rush of beeping miraculous or inquisitive crowd trying to discern their identities, or maybe it’s that Ladybug, under the weather as she is, is feeling less reserved - whatever it is, Chat wants it to last forever. But he has a duty, and something to prove to his partner, so he reluctantly edges to the end of the call.

“You should go take care of yourself, Ladybug,” he says, “Be sure to take plenty of cat naps and _mew_ dicine.”

“Chaaaat,” she groans, covering her face with her hand and failing to hide a laugh. A moment later her laughter catches into a cough, and she’s left wheezing.

“I've got to start the patrol, and you need to rest. Goodnight, Ladybug.”

“Goodnight, Chat. Call me if there’s any emergency.”

“Always.”

Their video call ends with a soft beep, and a panel slides over the screen. Despite the chill of the night air, Chat feels flushed with heat. More than anything he wishes that Ladybug were here, by his side, rather than sick and curled up in some bedroom he’s never seen, in some house he’s never been invited to. He’ll take second-best circumstances, though: she’d made a terrible pun; he’d made her laugh, twice.

Baton in hand, Chat launches himself from the roof. He flies and falls. The street below rises, perilously close, and Chat lets himself drop a breath longer before extending his baton. Metal sparks on brick with a satisfying spark; Chat levers himself to the top of the next building. 

Danger is an adequate companion in the absence of Ladybug. It almost distracts him from the thought curling around his skull, the thought that places him at the side of Ladybug’s bed, spooning soup to her as she stares up at him, adoration the only mask on her face. The vision is hazy, and leads down a path he knows better than to follow. Danger will do, for now.

Chat could map Paris out by its roofs alone. Nearly six months of practice brings ease to his motions, though if he’s a hair more reckless than usual then, well, at least there’s no Ladybug to chastise him. A few people spot him as he crosses over the streets, and most of those who do wave or point. Those who react fast enough snap a picture or attempt to get a video - Chat wonders how long it will take to see himself on Alya’s blog, or what the infamous Ladyblog will say about Chat Noir patrolling all on his lonesome. 

The evening passes undisturbed. The streets are quieter, less busy, a likely symptom of the chill air and cold season. Close to 11, Chat begins working his way back through the Parisian neighborhoods, circling ever closer to the Agreste mansion. Rather than take the roofs, Chat detours through the park, leaping from tree to tree and vaulting over the fountain at its center. He leaps past the well-known Dupain-Cheng bakery and is sailing over the street when something at the edge of his vision catches his attention. 

It’s a tricky maneuver, but not impossible - Chat twists his body, changing the direction of his momentum. He wobbles at the top of his baton, now swinging back towards the bakery. He leans slightly, until he is able to balance at the top of the pole. 

As close as it is to school and the mansion, Chat has been past Marinette’s family bakery countless times. From his nighttime activities, he’s well aware of the little rooftop terrace connected to the home, and has seen signs of regular use there - plants, a few deck chairs, a string of lights. What he’s not familiar with is what he sees now: a pile of girl, wrapped in a soft pink comforter, unmoving. 

He lets himself tip forward, back towards the roof of the bakery, and begins to retract his baton. Chat lands neatly on the railing of the balcony. 

It's Marinette alright, huddled on the floor. Her eyes are shut, and from her lack of reaction to his rather sudden appearance, Chat has to assume that she’s asleep, or at least very out of it. 

“Princess?”

No response.

Chat suddenly knows what it feels like for one’s heart to stop beating. He’s off the rail in an instant and leaning close. The faintest of breaths passes her lips, and now that he’s above her Chat can hear a slight rasp with every exhale.

“Marinette?”

She stirs at that, though her eyes remain firmly shut. 

“Marinette, what are you doing out here?”

The only response he gets from her is a weak cough. Shivering, she tugs her blanket closer to her, until nothing but her face shows. It reminds him of Nino from earlier today, and Chat doubts the similarity is coincidence. 

Gently, Chat slides an arm under Marinette and props her up. A sheen of sweat coats her brow, though it is decidedly cold outside. The leather of his glove is too thick to feel her temperature when he presses the back of his hand to her forehead, so Chat draws Marinette up to him and lays his cheek on hers. Her skin is hot. Judging from the blanket and the way the trapdoor down to the house lays open, Marinette must have decided at some point, in some feverish haze, that she’d be more comfortable in the outside air than inside.

However long she’s been passed out on the balcony can't have been good for her, and there’s no hesitation as Chat scoops Marinette up and holds her against him. Marinette squirms in his arms, but neither protests nor opens her eyes.

Maneuvering through the trapdoor is tricky with an armful of girl, especially when Marinette proves to be much heavier than she looks. The hand he has wrapped around her waist can feel the firm muscles of her back and stomach. 

Below the trapdoor is a sea of pillows and blankets in pink. Chat considers the best way to lower Marinette down - slide her? Drop her? Try and go through the window instead? - and opts for tightening his hold on her and falling backwards through the door. They hit the bed and bounce, the top of her head catching him in the chin. 

It is a stroke of rare luck for Chat that Marinette is so sick that she does not wake up on top of him. There’s no chance he’d be able to calmly explain how they’d ended up slotted together on her bed. 

Marinette’s bed is lofted high above the rest of her room, and Chat sees two problems: one, Marinette could hurt herself if she tried to crawl down the steps from her bed while so ill, and two, keeping her in her bed increases the chances that she’ll climb back up onto the roof.

He rolls her off of him and worms his way to the ladder. Her blankets and sheets become a sled to drag her over, and he awkwardly picks her back up and carries her down. There’s a chaise lounge nearby, and Chat deposits Marinette there. All around the room are signs of her sickness: empty blister packets, scattered tissues, a damp, folded cloth that she must have been using to cool herself.

While it might be Chat Noir who tucked the girl against his chest and delivered her to her bed, it is all Adrien when he crouches down and tentatively presses his cheek to Marinette’s forehead once more. With a hum of concern he begins to stand, looking for a new cloth to soak in cool water or a glass to fill for her. With any luck her fever would break soon. 

Marinette flails and catches him by the arm. Any protest over being grabbed dies in his throat when her eyelids peel back and he’s confronted with eyes blue enough to fill the morning sky. 

“What are you doing here, _chaton_?” she mumbles, “It’s not clean… my room…”

Marinette tucks her face into the crook of her elbow and groans. Sheets and blankets tangle her legs even as she tries to kick at them - on or away, Chat can’t be completely sure. Revealed is a pair of short, red and black spotted pajama bottoms. 

“I won't hold it against you this time, Princess,” he whispers. Carefully, he reaches down to free her from her sheets, avoiding bumping her bare legs the best he can. It’s not that he’s _nervous_ to see so much skin, absolutely not, simply that Marinette has always been reserved - and fumbling, and uncomfortable, and sweet - around Adrien. Just because he’s Chat now doesn't mean he should test that boundary. At least one of them, Chat or Adrien, is a gentleman.

Upon reflection, they’re very nice legs. Marinette had never struck him as being particularly athletic, but looking now, it’s obvious that there’s power in her toned form. Chat hastily covers her back up with the sheet he’d been holding as he stared unhindered. She’s his _classmate_ , and she’s _sick_ , and he’s supposed to be the upstanding hero of Paris.

Water. He was getting water for her. 

While not large, Marinette’s room is packed to the brim; he’s fortunate night vision is a thing with his mask, or he’d have found himself in an awkward situation when he careened into a dress form and woken everyone in the house. He spots an empty glass on her desk, and is grabbing for it when Marinette lets out a weak whimper and mutters, “Adrien...”

Chat’s never gone so still in his life. When his heart finally chugs back online, it thunders with rib-cracking force. How could _she_ possibly know? 

“Marinette?” he breathes.

“Don’t, don’t laugh at me.” Her voice is dream-wispy as it drifts to him.

“I wasn't. In fact, laughing is the exact opposite of what I feel like doing right now.” 

Chat abandons the glass and crosses back over to her. Kneeling at the side of the chaise, he leans in close. Her eyes have fluttered closed again, but the crinkle of her nose and pout of her lips make it apparent she’s still awake.

“How did you figure it out?” he hisses, “How long have you known?”

“You didn't give me time… to take down the posters.”

Wait, what? 

Chat rears back with enough force to almost tip himself over. Suddenly, it seemed that he and Marinette may have been having two entirely different conversations.

“Posters? Marinette, you’re making zero sense.”

“Adrien…” 

The reaction is instantaneous - he can't control the way he tenses at his name. Were he not frantically trying to figure out how mousy Marinette had determined his secret identity, Chat would set aside a moment to contemplate the way his name passed her lips in a soft, delighted sigh. As it was, he is barely keeping it together well enough to process what comes next.

“Adrien… Posters.”

He straightens. Looks at her. Narrows his eyes.

“Did you say… Adrien _posters_?”

“Don't laugh at meeee!” she whines, a little more force behind her words. Had she been well, the way her arm goes up to cover her forehead might have been called dramatic, but Marinette is still weak, and sick, and the motion is more of a flop.

Standing up, Chat picks his way back over to her desk and work area. His pulse picks up as he nears, because if she’s saying what he thinks she’s saying…

Adrien’s face is _everywhere_. Magazine cut-outs, pictures printed from the internet, and, as promised, a handful of posters, all featuring his face. As he leans in closer to look, he sees that some of the printed pictures have arrows pointing to his different parts of his outfits - leading to design notes, he realizes - but others simply have hearts doodled around them. 

Chat laughs.

“ _Cha-aaaat_ ,” comes Marinette’s voice. A moment later, she hurls a pillow in his direction, surprisingly fierce for how sick she is, but way off target given that her eyes are still closed. “Noooo…”

Chat’s laugh deepens. There’s a part of him that feels bad, really, but it’s outweighed by the flurry of shock, and confusion, and delight that zips around his head. All of this time-

“You _like_ Adrien Agreste!”

“More than I like you right now, Alley Cat.”

What he thinks next has to go unspoken, lest he call into question his identity - _so that’s why you've always been so nervous around me._ It wasn't that she was unbelievably shy, or that he’d done something to make her uncomfortable. 

“ _You_ like Adrien Agreste,” he says again, giddy. 

Sure, Adrien has been fawned over before - Chloé has been relentless in spewing her love for him for years. But he’s never found out before that someone had a genuine crush on him, and that fact that it’s Marinette somehow makes it all the more thrilling. 

“Don't you dare tell him,” she says. It’s answer enough. 

Someone _likes_ him. Marinette _likes_ him. After months of unrequited pining for Ladybug, the feeling of being wanted is so potent it almost washes out his affection for her. In the dark, it’s unlikely that Marinette can see him, but he grins at her all the same.

“It will be our little secret, Princess.”

He picks up the glass he’d left behind before and saunters over. Marinette's fighting against her blankets to sit up and look at him.

“Princess…?” she asks, voice much clearer than it had been. Marinette blinks at him, then stretches out a hand and stares at her fingers, perplexed. Whatever she sees - looks like a normal hand to him - confuses her further, and she begins touching at her face, running her fingers under her eyes. 

“Is there something else you'd rather I call you?” - _like Mari, or Sweetheart, or Beautiful?_ Chat finishes in his head.

“... No, that’s fine…” Marinette trails off, still looks uncertain, like she’s trying to catch up on what’s going on around her. 

“You should lay back down and rest,” he says softly, “Where’s your bathroom? I'll get you some water.”

Marinette points towards a door and mumbles something about ‘the left’. She looks around, searching for something. 

Adrien’s never been to Marinette’s before, and now that he’s closing the door to her bedroom behind him, he suddenly feels like a trespasser. He has no idea where her parents are, or if they’re awake, but no doubt they'd be displeased to find a teenage boy in a catsuit creeping around their home, hero or no. Fortunately, the bathroom is not far beyond her room.

Halfway through filling up her cup, Chat catches his reflection in the mirror. Like Marinette’s room, the bathroom is decked in pinks and blues - he looks out of place, a black scratch in the midst of such soft femininity. 

What is he doing here? Playing nurse to a girl who doesn't even know who he really is? Lying to the sweetest classmate he’s ever had, learning something he shouldn't have ever known?

Chat should go. He should bring Marinette her water and slip out the trapdoor and leave her be. But now that he knows what he knows, leaving lacks appeal. As sick as Marinette is, as dazed as she seems to be by fever, Chat could likely ask her anything about Adrien Agreste, and she’d likely spill.

And that’s when it hits him that he needs to go, immediately. Marinette is too good to be taken advantage of. Marinette is too good for him, especially if he’d sway to such thoughts so easily. Chat turns off the water. 

She’s reclining in the chaise when he creeps back into her room. Although Chat had only been gone for a minute or two, Marinette’s eyes have already sunk closed again. Breathing a sigh of relief - who knows if he’d have actually had the will to go if Marinette had been waiting for him, eyes wide - Chat sets her glass of water on the floor next to the chaise. 

Later, he’ll tell himself that he acted out of concern for her well-being, that he had to make sure her fever hadn’t crept up to dangerous levels. But in the moment, Chat can’t pin down exactly what emotion drives him to impulse. He swoops down and plants his lips on her forehead. 

Soft skin, warm but clammy. A snuffling exhale. This close, Marinette smells like cinnamon and sweat. 

Satisfied that her fever hasn't spiked, Chat pulls away. He’s tempted to check again, just in case, but Marinette’s forehead wrinkles and she turns her head away from him in her sleep. The view he’s left with is lovely: mussed hair clinging to a long, slender neck. 

It’s that image (and perhaps that of her long legs, wrapped up in her sheets) that chases him from Marinette’s bedroom and out across the streets. 

It’s that image that follows through the high, open window of his bedroom and wraps around him as Chat Noir peels away, leaving Adrien behind. 

It’s that image (and not that muzzy vision of Ladybug, beaming at him through a tiny screen) that drifts around him when he wakes up the very next morning with a fever.


	2. chicken soup for the soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To be fair, it's not the fever that's got Chat hot. 
> 
> It's the soup. Obviously.

Adrien understands what Nino meant when he asked for a ‘quick and painless death’. This particular strain of cold was particularly nasty, and Adrien wonders why he ever took breathing for granted. He’s bad enough that morning that when Nathalie comes in to see why he hasn’t already come down for breakfast, she practically leaps back into the hallway and lets him know she’ll notify the school. While he hadn’t necessarily been expecting tenderness from his father’s overworked personal assistant, Adrien had suddenly felt a little smaller, a little more isolated in the massive Agreste estate. 

It’s been years since he was sick. The last time he could remember being bedridden from a cold, his mother had tucked the blankets up to his chin and brought him tea every hour, on the hour. Nathalie was locked away in his father’s office, arranging travel plans for the trip his father would be taking as soon as he got back from Italy, and Nino had texted him some nonsense that morning that had left no question in Adrien’s mind that he was still stuck at home and strongly under the influence of severe cough medicine. His father’s staff, while polite, weren't hired to provide riveting company.

Nino hadn't mentioned that being sick could be so _boring_. Adrien spends part of the morning attempting to text Nino, but after his ridiculous response, had given it up and started texting Alya. Unfortunately, she was back in class that day, so their conversation was limited to a who was out sick - a list that included Marinette.

Adrien had the whole text to Alya written out: _Hey, if Marinette’s out sick too, think I could have her number? She’s probably trapped in her room and as boooooored as I am_.

He deletes it. There’s no way Alya doesn't know about her best friend’s crush on him, and he doesn't have the energy to start a riot today. Besides, Adrien just wants to get to know her a little better… not scare her off.

So it’s boring, and awful, and Adrien drags himself out of bed only once when Plagg refuses to bring him his laptop. Plagg had complained of being too small, too weak, but Adrien had seen the magical prick hoist a five pound wheel of gouda over his head once before (the image of Plagg, stretched out in the shape of a wheel of cheese consumed in one gulp would haunt his nightmares for months to come.). He checks the Ladyblog, knowing there’s not been much activity, but doesn't linger in the Ladybug photo gallery the way he normally does.

A few hours pass: Adrien plays a game on his computer, coughs until it's painful, and sleeps fitfully. When he does sleep, he dreams he’s running through the hallways of the school, Marinette’s hand in his, as they dodge blasts from a notably ferocious red and black spotted akuma.

It’s the worst day Adrien’s had in years.

Around noon, Nino comes out of his stupor and Adrien’s fever has broken. A solid half hour is spent via text bemoaning their sickness and all of the work they’ll have to make up when they get back to school. 

_yeah dude, sorry i cant come over and hang_ Nino taps out, _mom stayed home today and is watching me like a hawk_

Adrien wonders what that is like - technically, there’s no one keeping him home.

_like im gunna get more sick, mdr_

Nino’s next message comes before Adrien finishes his response.

_good news is u got the second best thing coming ur way_

Whatever it is, it’s got to be timed, because there’s no way that the knock that comes to his door a split-second after Nino texts _that_ is a coincidence. Nathalie steps in a moment later.

“Oh, Adrien, I was hoping you'd be getting some rest.” 

Something’s wrong. Nathalie stands stiff and straight in his doorway, and her voice is tight as she speaks. She clutches her ever-present tablet to her chest. She won't quite meet his eyes.

“I slept a while ago Nathalie, and I'm feeling better. What's up?”

Nathalie leans a shade back and glances to something just outside the door. Adrien can't think of a time when he’s seen such a flood of emotion on Nathalie’s normally stoic countenance: regret, confusion, shock, relief. 

“You have company,” Nathalie says, voice flat. She turns. “Come in. Please.”

Marinette Dupain-Cheng shifts to stand in his doorway. 

Is he dreaming?

He’s dreaming - he’s sick, and knocked out on his last dose of cough medicine, and his fever has risen, because there’s no way in the _world_ that Marinette has come from the fog of last night and the haze of his curious desire to stand before him now. 

She looks different than she did last night, different than she does at school, and with a twinge Adrien acknowledges that she looks a lot like how he might dream her up. Marinette sports a pair of grey patterned joggers and a slim-fitted sweater in sapphire. An equally blue beanie slouches low over a messy bun. Casual, yet composed with a designer’s eye. If this isn't a dream, Marinette might make it into his next one like that. That thought is cut blissfully short when Marinette stammers to a start.

“Hi, uh, hi! Adrien! I heard, euh, Nino texted me and then, well, Alya said you were sick but of course you're always sick, I mean, not sick-sick, but like, nice-sick and so I thought I’d just… come by…” 

Marinette begins to wither. Timidly, she lifts a familiar thermal food bag up high enough to cover her face, which is already going red. There’s no way he’s asleep - not with the way Nathalie gawks at Marinette as though she’s some absurd alien specimen. No one in Adrien’s dreams would ever look at Marinette that way. 

Adrien musters his best grin around the chapped skin of his lips and ignores how stuffed his nose sounds when he says, “Marinette, hey! Is that the same soup you brought for Alya and Nino? Please tell me that’s the same soup!”

Her tiny “It is” is so soft and high that it’s a miracle he hears it from across the room.

“Thank you so much. I know I’ll be better in no time now!”

He’s already better. He’s already one thousand times better. 

“Nathalie, Marinette and I are going to hang out for a bit. Thank you for bringing her up.” It’s not a question, or a request for permission, and Adrien doesn’t care if word of this gets back to his father or not. To his surprise, Nathalie simply gives him a curt nod and steps out of the room. She casts one long, unreadable glance at Marinette before pulling his bedroom door shut.

Adrien had been alone with Marinette the night before. Sure, she’d been out of it for much of the time, and Marinette hadn’t known it was him, exactly, but still. He’d seen her less than eighteen hours ago. That knowledge doesn’t stop him from feeling warmer than he already had. He scrambles to straighten up in his bed, and rubs his sweaty palms on his hands. 

For the longest time - or at least a good thirty seconds - they stare at one another. Marinette making eye contact is definitely an improvement, but now that her wide blue eyes are fixed on him, Adrien can’t seem to snag a single word from his brain. Both of their phones buzz at the exact same time.

Marinette jolts and pulls her phone from her pocket. Adrien scrambles to find his in the mountain of blankets on his bed. 

“Nino,” Adrien says at the same moment Marinette breathes, “Alya.”

They both share in a surprised chuckle. 

“I’m really glad Nino texted you,” Adrien says. His transfixion is, for the moment, broken, and he forces as much genuine joy into his voice as he can. All he wants now is for Marinette to be comfortable around him. To talk to him.

“Yeah,” she whispers, “When he told me you were sick, I couldn’t just not, I mean, everyone should have someone sick- no, _when_ they’re sick. To take care of them.”

Adrien thinks of his large, lonely bedroom in the middle of his vast, empty house. The morning had been misery, but now that she was here, maybe things would turn around. His spirits swell at the thought that she came out of her way to visit and take care of _him_. Just like she had with all of her other friends, like it was normal. He’s done in by her thoughtfulness.

“I can’t thank you enough. Alya texted saying you were sick too, though - are you feeling okay?”

Marinette’s hands grip the handles of her bag so tightly that they’ve gone white. Her face is a magnificent scarlet - something Adrien doesn’t foresee changing anytime soon - and she’s barely succeeded in getting through two sentences. Nonetheless, Marinette nods.

“I was really sick last night,” and wow, Adrien is blown away to hear a complete thought directed at him in her soft, gentle voice, “But I’m feeling better today. _Maman_ still wanted me to stay home, even though my fever broke. I… may have snuck out while she and _Papa_ were across town buying supplies for the bakery.”

“I hope you don’t get in trouble because of me, but I seriously appreciate this so much. May I…?”

She totters over, each step looking perilously like her last. In the past six months, Adrien has seen Marinette stand up to Chloe, teachers, and even a few akuma, but never before has she seemed as scared as she does approaching his bed. The closer she gets, the more he’s sure he can hear her breath coming out in short, harsh gasps. This, the posters, every interaction they’ve ever had - it makes so much sense. 

Marinette sets her bag on the floor by his bed and unzips it. Steam billows around her when she pulls out a lidded plastic container of soup and a spoon. With all of the delicacy of a surgeon performing heart surgery, Marinette hands him his soup. 

Straightening in his bed, Adrien carefully removes the lid and takes a spoon from Marinette. He’s enveloped in a rush of warm, spicy ginger, and while the thought of food has repulsed him all day, Adrien is suddenly famished. The clear, yellow broth is dotted with herbs, slices of mushroom and onion, and a few bite-sized pieces of chicken. For all of its simplicity, the first bite goes down like gold. Adrien swears he feels a touch of magic in it - he already feels himself perking up. Two, three, four more bites pass before Adrien senses the mild press of Marinette’s attention. 

She’s watching him from the very corner of her downcast eyes, and her gaze darts back to the soup in her hands the moment she realizes he’s looking back. Marinette fiddles with the lid one-handed before popping it off and taking her own bite. The whole process seems much more difficult while she’s standing.

“This soup is amazing, Marinette,” he gushes, “No wonder Alya and Nino were raving over it!” Adrien takes another bite and grins. Marinette just about drops her soup when she stiffens in shock. This, this was going to take time.

“Thanks, I really - it’s not as amazing as y- I mean. Thanks.” 

Her smile is strained. If Adrien were a betting man, he’d bet money that Marinette was thinking something along the lines of ‘Why did I almost say that?!? I hope he didn’t catch it!’. He caught it.

“Come sit down,” Adrien says, patting to a spot on the edge of his bed. He’s not _trying_ to break her, but it did seem awfully awkward for her trying to eat soup while standing and still sneak glances at him. It’s the least he can do (and has nothing to do with him wanting her closer).

Marinette’s mouth flaps open and shut, trying to form some kind of protest, but politeness or the inability to speak wins out. She settles on the very far corner of the edge of his bed. The fact that she hasn’t passed out yet from uneven blood distribution in her body is remarkable. 

“Really though,” Adrien says, lifting the soup up, “This is awesome. Just… _soup_ -erb.”

It takes a second to process. Adrien’s glad he’s focusing all of his attention on Marinette, because a moment later, she snorts. Her voice still wavers, but there’s a lift to it when she says, “That was terrible. If I were you, I wouldn’t put much _stock_ in your comedy career.”

Intentional or not, Marinette has just summoned Adrien to his true calling. He chuckles and sets down his spoon. 

“Clearly you don’t appreciate true artistry,” he shoots back, “I spent all night _stewing_ over these jokes.”

“I can _barley_ believe that.”

“Well, if you really used your _noodle_ , you might come to appreciate it.”

Marinette snorts again, then giggles, then outright loses it. Somehow, she doesn’t spill her soup even as she doubles over to laugh. Her face has a new rosiness to it when she finally catches her breath long enough to say, “That was awful, Adrien.”

It only takes a heartbeat for Marinette’s own words to sink in; she backtracks.

“No, I mean, not like _you’re_ awful, or that the jokes were that bad, it’s just that-”

“Whoooa, Marinette, it’s fine, it’s fine! I know the caliber of the jokes I make, trust me.”

“You’re… not offended?” She’d been studying her soup intensely, but now she looks up at him through long, dark lashes. Even with face reddened and eyes bruised from sickness, Marinette - on his bed - paints a pretty picture. He swallows hard and smiles.

“Of course not. We’re friends, and the way I see it, some teasing here or there between friends never hurt.”

The next word comes out in the barest of whispers. “Friends?”

Marinette’s not looking at him anymore. Adrien would like to lean over and place a finger under her chin, tipping it up until he could look her in the face. But Marinette seems overwhelmed enough, and he suspects she’d undergo sublimation with a single touch. 

“Mhm.”

“I like that…” she says quietly, “Friends.” She lifts her head. 

Never before has someone directed a smile like _that_ at him. If someone ever succeeded in bottling the essence of a summer morning, they’d call it Marinette. He feels sunny from the tip of his tongue, down. Despite himself, he leans forward, closer.

“Me too,” Adrien confesses. 

…

She sits cross-legged at the foot of his bed for close to an hour. Once the fact that Adrien called her his ‘friend’ sunk in, Marinette clammed up more than he’d hoped, but he couldn’t contest the fact that just her presence was enjoyable. He led most of the conversation, teasing bits and pieces of information from her: her favorite movie (Howl’s Moving Castle), the best pastry at her parents’ bakery (the _macarons, sans doute_ ), the soup she liked the most (tomato). When Nathalie comes around to finally kick her out, neither teen looks especially pleased. 

“Who woulda thought she’d have the guts?” Plagg says the moment Marinette closes the door behind her. He zooms out from his hiding place - one of the abandoned socks under Adrien’s bed - and whirls slow circles around his head. 

“Not me,” Adrien admits, “But I’m glad she did.”

“I bet you are, Loverboy. It must be _so_ nice to have her fawning over you.”

Adrien studiously refuses to meet Plagg’s smirking cat face.

“Ha! You’re as red as Ladybug!”

“It’s the fever, Plagg.”

“Uh-huh, suuuuure.”

“You should have a little more sympathy for me,” he says, pouting at his kwami now that he’s had a moment to reign in his blush, “Besides, the longer I’m sick, the longer you’re stuck in this boring old room with nothing but processed cheese to munch on. Can’t get all that fancy Camembert if I’m bedridden.”

Plagg lets out a mew of anguish and hovers right in front of Adrien’s nose. 

“You need to get better, now!”

…

It’s a stupid idea, probably, but once it sticks, he can’t seem to get it out of his head. Exhausted after entertaining Marinette, Adrien had fallen into a long nap. The idea had planted itself then, and by the time he woke up that later that afternoon, had germinated. Even though Plagg shuts it down the moment he brings it up, and the time after, evening finds Adrien’s thought in full bloom. 

“What makes you think I'll agree, sicky?”

“You love watching me make an idiot out of myself, Plagg.”

“Eh, fair enough.”

Adrien drags himself out of bed and over to his bathroom. Even after splashing some water on his face and running a comb through his hair, he looks rough. ‘Sick in bed all day’ is not a flattering look. With any luck, the magic from the Chat Noir transformation will muffle his symptoms. If not, there’s always _Sirop Peter’s_. 

Plagg whizzes in an studies both of them on the mirror. A sly grin plays on his tiny face.

“Why are you even going for this girl anyway? What about the ‘love of your life’ _Ladybug_?” 

Adrien wrinkles his nose and waves the little kwami away. He’d spent much of his day - awake and otherwise - with Marinette on the brain, and her impromptu visit certainly hadn't helped. But Plagg wasn't wrong. Months of affection for Ladybug weren't going to die down in a day, and he’s tossed and turned over this new found fascination with his gentle classmate. Ladybug might not know it, but it still felt like a betrayal.

“Marinette is my classmate,” Adrien says, “and she came over and took care of me. It’s only fair to repay the kindness.”

“But if you go as Chat, she’s not going to know that,” Plagg argues, grin still fixed in place.

“And if I go as Adrien, assuming I could even get out, she won't talk to me at all.”

“Humans are so ridiculous. I may love cheese, but it’s not keeping me from eating it.”

“It’s not the same,” Adrien snaps, “Marinette isn’t cheese, and no one is _eating_ anyone.”

Plagg snickers and zips around his head, avoiding the swat Adrien aims at him. With a sigh, Adrien rests his elbows on the bathroom counter and stares at his reflection. The black kwami might be three full ounces of snark, but he called him as he saw them. A groan escapes him.

The thing about Marinette is that she’s _there_. She sits behind him in school, lives above the bakery a few blocks from his house, has posters of his face pinned to her walls. Marinette is near in every way that Ladybug is distant. _And_ she likes him.

“We don't have all night,” Plagg calls from the bedroom, “Let’s get moving, Loverboy!”

“Plagg! It’s not-!”

But Adrien can’t quite say what it is or is not like. His heart thrills in his chest. Plagg laughs.

…

He hadn't thought about it this far in advance. 

Well, he _had_ thought about it, quite a bit, in advance, but apparently Chat had overshot. Whereas he’d spent his waking hours thinking exclusively about how sweet the smile on Marinette’s face when he presented the soup he’d brought with a flourish would be, or how soft her lips might feel on his cheek when she kissed him a thankful farewell, Adrien had not dedicated a single second to figuring out just how he would get _to_ Marinette. The conundrum hits Chat mid-leap, and he nearly dumps soup all over Marinette’s roof terrace when his baton tips him onto it. Chat skids on his knees, flailing to keep his balance and the soup intact. 

Righting himself, Chat scans the roof. His options are limited. For once, he wishes there was a petite girl passed out on the roof under a blanket. That would make his job much easier. 

He could enter through the trapdoor and drop down onto her bed. Only the possibility of crushing her sleeping form or embarrassing her to death dissuades him from that first option; the temptation of feeling warmth radiating from her compact body comes close to enticing him anyway ( _she would smell of cinnamon_ ). Chat could knock on the trapdoor and ask for permission to enter. It was the polite, well-mannered process, and the one Marinette deserved… And the only one that allowed her to deny seeing him at any moment. Which left him with the least satisfactory of options - waiting. 

Sighing, Chat adjusts his grip on the soup container and settles into one of the folding chairs. The chair is a hair too short, forcing him to stretch his legs out straight in front of him. A gloved hand taps out an erratic pattern on the arm of the chair. He squirms, trying and failing to distract himself with the view of the park below. A string of violent sneezes pound past his nose, only adding to his misery. What if she didn't come up? What if he was stuck out on the roof all night? What if he gave in and just went through the trap-

“So it wasn't a dream.”

Chat whips around and totters in the flimsy chair. He sees, in order:

-A cascade of dark hair limned silver in moonlight  
-A slender hand curled tightly around a brass handle  
-The tight line of plush lips drawn into a grimace

“You _were_ here last night,” Marinette continues, stepping out onto the balcony, “You were in my bedroom.”

If it weren’t for the look of displeasure on her face, Chat would have spent the rest of the night taking her in. With the timorous stutter stripped away (he was Chat, not Adrien), Marinette is all crossed arms and defiant stares. It made her all the more striking, that a small girl in polka-dotted sleep shorts and a black tank top could stand before him, chin raised, and make him feel weak in the knees. She waits for his response, eyebrows raised.

“Y-you had collapsed, or, or fallen asleep on the balcony last night. I was patrolling the neighborhood when I saw you and well… What kind of hero would I be if I just left girls on balconies? You had a fever!”

Chat rubs the back of his neck, fighting to keep eye contact. Sure, maybe some of his visions about how the evening turned out were a smidge… Fantastic, but he wasn't anticipating a confrontation over his presence. 

Marinette’s firm gaze holds well after he’s done speaking. Without even moving, she’s splayed him out and begun dissecting him. Chat can practically feel the smooth edge of the scalpel as it cuts neatly towards his heart. Whatever she must see there satisfies - Marinette nods and her arms fall to her sides. A wisp of a smile crosses her lips.

“Thank you, Chat,” she says, “For not letting me die on my balcony. My fever dreams were… really crazy last night. I wasn't even sure that you… were there…”

Some of the bravado falls away. She stretches out a hand and spreads her fingers, staring - she’d done it the night before, too. Blue eyes shifting back to Chat, Marinette nibbles on her bottom lip. It’s a different kind of shy than reserved for Adrien. It gives him the jolt he needs to push himself out of the folding chair and swagger over to Marinette. 

“As flattered as I am to learn you dream about me, Princess, I was indeed here,” Chat purrs. He winks, only to receive an eyeroll in return. Undeterred, Chat slides up next to Marinette. He’d love to rest an arm across her shoulders, or perhaps tuck her head under cheek and ensure she’s no longer fevered, but it’s not his line to cross. So instead he nudges her lightly with his elbow and wags his eyebrows. 

“But just because you're awake now doesn't mean I can't be the man of your dreams,” he finishes with a smirk. 

The only person Chat’s ever used such ridiculous lines on is Ladybug, but now as the blush unfolds on Marinette’s cheeks, he thinks he may have a new recipient. For all that she stamps her feet and shoves him - not all that gently - away, her cheeks stay a vivid red. Chat has seen that blush one hundred times as Adrien, but is floored when she says, clear and level, “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t haul your fuzzy behind off of this roof, Chat.” 

“Because I'm the famous hero of Paris?” he says as he flexes.

“You've gotta do better than that.”

“Because I am devastatingly handsome and intelligent?”

“Nope,” Marinette says, stretching out the ‘o’ long enough to be comical. He’d be affronted if she weren't smiling now. 

Chat lifts the bag containing their soup - the original purpose of his visit.

“Because we’re both sick and I brought soup?” His voice rises on those last words and he shrugs, sounding uncertain. Just because Marinette hasn't kicked him off of the roof yet doesn't mean she won't, and the dubious eye she casts him now isn't all that promising.

“You’re sick?” she asks.

“Since this morning. I'd tell you how much cough medicine I'm currently on but I think that it would make you mad.”

“And you came all the way out here…” Marinette starts, “To check on me… and bring me soup.”

She gets a nod and a grin in response. Marinette slouches and runs a hand through her loose hair. It falls straight and gentle on her shoulders, framing the curve if her jaw. She mutters something under her breath. 

“Well then, if you're going to be staying, you'd better come down off of the roof. Last thing we need is the paparazzi,” she says, sighing.

The wiggle-bounce escapes his body before Chat can stop it. Marinette snorts and lugs the trapdoor back open. His little dance lengthens as he gives her a minute to descend and crawl down from the bed. After what was indubitably an eternity, Marinette calls up to him.

Chat bounds down, soup in hand. There’s some hissed protest about boots on the bed, but Chat is down the ladder fast enough for it to fade. 

“Look-” Marinette begins, but whatever she was about to say is lost in a torrent of harsh coughs. She doubles over, face reddening as she gasps for breath between hacks.

“Marinette?” 

He’s unable to keep the concern from his voice, though there’s nothing he can do. Chat takes a step closer and reaches out for her, but Marinette puts a hand out and shakes her head. Useless, Chat squirms and undoes the bag with the soup as Marinette catches her breath. There are two insulated styrofoam cups and a set of prepackaged silverware that he pulls out. Steam rises from the tops when he pops off the lids. 

“Soup for the lady,” Chat says with a grin. He passes her a cup and a spoon. 

Marinette doesn't immediately take it. Her brow furrows and she swipes a finger along the underside of her eye. 

“You’re… you’re here because I'm sick,” she says slowly.

“I had to check up on you after last night.”

“And there’s… no other reason? That you're here?”

Suspicion breeds suspicion - Chat frowns. Nothing that he’s done merits her cool treatment, as far as he can tell. Perhaps she’s miffed that he was in her room last night? Maybe she thinks that he wants to…ah…? His pulse picks up at the half-formed thought.

“Should there be?” Chat asks, because suddenly he can think of plenty of other reasons, all more enticing than simply eating soup. He’d love to make her blush again.

Marinette hesitates before taking the soup from his hands and saying, “No… no, there’s not.”

“Good, because I fully intend to spend the rest of this fine evening pestering the girl who got me sick.”

The Marinette that Adrien knows would trip over her words as she attempted to apologize for getting her sick, but Chat likes this Marinette even better, the one who straddles her desk chair backwards and side-eyes him over her first bite of soup.

“I'll allow it,” she says once she swallows, “But only because I love tomato soup and we can't get each other any sicker.”

She motions to the pink chaise with her spoon, inviting him to sit down. He does, popping the lid off of his own soup. French onion, smothered in broiled cheese, irresistible under the influence of Plagg and Chat Noir. They eat for a few minutes in companionable silence, until Marinette pipes up, asking, “How did you know I liked tomato soup?”

“Sometimes this black cat gets lucky,” Chat replies, since he can’t say _You mentioned it this afternoon while on my bed. In my bedroom_. Before Marinette can start getting suspicious again, Chat launches into the story of how he finagled soup in the first place.

Marinette giggles, and at one point nearly chokes on her soup, as Chat describes the look on the café owner’s face when Chat Noir, in all of his catsuited glory, had bounced down from the café’s awning and swung through the door. He’d knocked over a chair that had been in the way and jostled a waitress holding a tray full of hot drinks, before rolling across the floor and coming to a dramatic stop before the counter.

“Fortunately, the owner insisted on giving me the soup for free - service to the city, and all. There’s not exactly space in this suit for a wallet, you know.”

She goes pink and lifts her eyes to the ceiling when Chat gestures to his leather-clad form. “I can only imagine the struggle,” Marinette says, and maybe it’s just him, but Chat swears there’s the slightest tremor in her voice. Inspired, Chat reclines on the chaise and leans his head back in his hands. Out from half-lidded eyes, he watches Marinette watch him. 

Her flush doesn't die down, nor do her eyes peel away. Chat doesn't know better, but he certainly hopes Marinette is checking him out. A moment later she shakes her head and says something under her breath. 

“What was that, Princess?”

Marinette startles, face contorting into a caricature of innocence.

“I wasn't- I was just- If you want to take a cat nap, you should just go home,” she manages.

“You'd really kick me out onto the streets?” Chat says. His lower lip juts out into a pout - he’ll go if she insists, but things were just starting to get fun.

“I'm seriously considering it,” Marinette says, voice flat. She’s already back in control.

Luckily for Chat, his body is looking out for him. Another flurry of sneezes hits him, wiping away whatever defense he was going to raise. He sits up, still sneezing, and Marinette offers him a wad of tissues.

“Fine, fine, you can stay a bit longer, you big baby, though I don't understand why you’re being so insistent. Don't you have a city to save?”

“I took a sick day,” Chat says. Marinette shakes her head and tosses him a cough drop. 

And then, suddenly, they’re talking. Chat asks about the half-completed skirt draped around one of Marinette’s dress forms, and she comes to life. Pleated and purple, it’s a piece she’s creating for Alya - “You know, the girl who runs the Ladyblog” - as a birthday surprise. Marinette spins in her rolling desk chair, grabbing her notebook and wheeling over to him. She flicks it open to the page and starts going over her final design, but stops when he comments on the awkward placement of the buttons. Blue eyes scan the design intently, then rise to meet his.

“You're totally right,” she breathes, and in the next second she’s whirling back over to her desk and grabbing a pencil to make adjustments.

Chat pushes himself off of the chaise and follows to her desk. He leans over to watch her work, and is hit with the scent of cinnamon. It’s a struggle not to scoot in closer.

“These are really good, Marinette,” he says, indicating to Alya’s skirt and the design - a highly structured blouse - on the opposite page. “Have you ever considered designing professionally?”

Chat knows the answer, even though he’s technically not supposed to. He’d seen her designs at school, modeled her hat, and heard her discussing it more than once. So the drop of her grin and the guarded hesitation that rises on her face comes out of nowhere.

“It's always been my dream, ever since I was little. Growing up in Paris, fashion is everywhere - it was impossible to escape, not that I ever wanted to. But recently…” Marinette gazes down at her drawings forlornly, “I'm getting older now and can't help but wonder if I should be focusing my time somewhere else. There are people who need help every day… what good is a dream if it can't help them? When was the last time a pretty skirt or a polo shirt saved somebody?”

Her hands clutch at the edge of her shorts, crumpling the thin red fabric. Marinette won't look at him, won't look up from her designs. If he were Ladybug, Chat would use one thousand Lucky Charms, no, more, until he found the magic item that would make her smile again. All he can do is kneel by her and gently coax one of her hands from its fist. Marinette does not shy from his touch.

“You don’t have to save the world to do something you love, Marinette,” he says, “And there’s nothing that says the things you create won’t help people. Think how happy your friend will be when she gets that,” Chat points to the skirt, “How loved and confident she’ll feel. Isn’t that important too? Feeling loved is important... Not everyone gets that.”

The last words slip out alongside an unbidden sigh. Chat didn’t mean to have, shouldn’t have let that slide. With the mask on, he doesn’t have to be Adrien, but it happens anyway. He thinks of Marinette, legs crossed on his bed, laughing at his jokes. He thinks of Marinette, head tipping down towards his, a frown gracing her features, and wonders.

Chat is still holding onto her hand. It seems natural when Marinette lays her other hand on top of his and says with a small, sad smile, “Thank you, _Chaton_.”

The hush between them is comfortable, the hand between Chat’s warm. While her upturned lips are a start, Chat is still determined to see all of the concern wiped away. If anyone deserves to be always happy, it is Marinette.

“Besides,” he says in a low voice, “If it weren’t for amazing fashion designers, the world would never get to see _me_ in all of my glory.”

It works. Her face lights up in an instant. 

“You call _that_ designer?” Marinette snickers, using their joined hands to point at his suit. 

Chat beams at her. “Maybe not designer, but certainly one-of-a-kind.” 

“You’re a one-of-a-kind goof,” she shoots back. 

“I may be a goof, but maybe one day I’ll be your goof,” he says with a shrug. He’s hoping to see her jaw drop, or one of those gorgeous blushes to stain her cheeks, or maybe even to hear her stammer and ramble like she does at school, but all Marinette does is snort and change the topic at breakneck speed.

“So, Chat, what do you want to be when you grow up? Any plans for the future, or are you taking the catsuit with you to the retirement home?” 

No one has ever asked him that. Ever. Not his father, or even his mother, back when she was extant. Not his tutors or professors or friends, until now. Never Plagg. There had always been the understanding that he would be a model, or a model Agreste, or Chat Noir. But she’s asked. Chat wishes he had a real answer. 

“Well now, stay in this job for too long and they’ll start calling me Silver Fox instead of Chat Noir.”

“Oh _Mon Dieu_ ,” Marinette groans, “Do you ever stop?” She’s casting her eyes to the heavens and wearing a shallow look of disgust that is rapidly being eroded by the chuckles that escape her.

“I'll have you know that I'm perfectly behaved on the other side of the mask,” he sniffs. 

“Oh, yeah, sure, Chat. So you just save all of your terrible jokes up for a special occasion?”

“My jokes are _purrfection_ ,” Chat says. He continues over Marinette’s sighs and groans of protest, “So incredible in fact that yes, I save them up for a special occasion. Or a special person.”

His eyes dart to her face.

Is it the moment? Impulse? The way the tide of Marinette’s eyes sweep him in, under? Whatever it is, it spurs Chat to lift her hand and press his lips to her knuckles. The heat rippling off of him has nothing to do with fever.

Marinette yanks her hand away and holds it to her chest as if burned. He’s never seen her eyes this wide or her blush this deep. Chat’s mouth turns to ash. 

“What- _Chat_ \- are you just-?” Her words waver, tipping between frightened and angry. 

Immediately he’s backpedalling, leaping up and putting a good few feet of distance between them. He raises both hands, palms to her - defensive, calming. 

“Marinette, please, I didn’t mean to-”

“Is this just some kind of game you’ve been playing?” 

“What? No!” Chat shakes his head, trying to regain his footing with what is going on.

“Then *what* are you doing here?” Marinette spits. 

“Making sure you’re alright! Bringing you soup! Trying to guarantee that at least *one* person in this world is treating you as kindly as you treat everyone else,” Chat says. He’s lost - why would she question what he’d already told her? Why would she think he was playing with her?

“Chat, tell me the truth.”

The truth? That he’d been thinking about her since she'd flawlessly evaded his out of control chair spin a day ago? That he’d never been more ecstatic to see his posters on someone’s wall? That his heart was rapidly outpacing the rest of him? Chat didn't think he could do it, not yet, but the near-truth didn’t seem too bad.

“I… I may know someone who goes to your school,” Chat says, scrambling to reassure her, “and they were talking about how everyone’s been getting sick, but you keep coming over and visiting and making sure they feel better. Knowing that kindness, I couldn't just leave you out on the roof last night - I mean, not that I would have anyway, but, you know - and then I had to see if you were better tonight. And that is the truth.”

The tightness in Marinette’s face softens minutely, but she still looks him up and down with wary eyes. “That’s the reason, the _only_ reason you’re here?”

“I wouldn't need any other,” Chat confirms.

For the second time that night, Marinette stares at her hand - the one he’d kissed. She turns from him, to the cup of soup he brought her, now empty, to her design sketchbook. Marinette looks thoughtful, though not fully convinced, when she nods her head and goes, “Okay. Maybe I didn't need to get so… _bleh_.” She pulls a face, eyes widening and lips drawing back to show teeth - the best expression to mimic the sound she’d made. “I guess I’m still… sick?”

Marinette bounces on the balls of her feet and fidgets in the silence. She is a completely different person around Chat than Adrien, and while he can’t explain why she vacillates between teasing and cautious, he desperately needs to figure it out. With any luck, there would be time. Against every nerve in his body, Chat knows that he needs to leave before he makes anything worse.

“Yeah, and I guess I am too. I should go, and you should rest.”

“Yeah… I'm all out of sorts,” Marinette says softly. The next sound that comes from her mouth in a painful mix of a yawn and a cough. 

“That’s my mistake, Princess. Here I am keeping you up when it’s already late, and you’re sick.”

“So are you. Go home. Good night, Chat.”

If ever there was a cue, that was it. He misses it. Rather than shimmy back up to the loft and lift himself back onto the roof, Chat stays rooted to the spot. The delay is long enough to be more than accident; Marinette catches on and raises an eyebrow. 

“Everything alright?” she asks. 

Chat rubs the back of his neck and pads from one foot to the other. He knows what he _wants_ to say. He also knows that Marinette didn’t take kindly to the last time he acted on want. Marinette crosses her arms over her chest. 

“Oh come on,” she huffs, “Cat got your tongue?”

He coughs to clear his throat of the heart that’s leapt up it. 

“I- ah, well, wondered if here, seeing you soon, if I could bring soup but, like, without the soup, I mean-” 

It is with sinking resolve that Chat begins to understand Marinette’s inability to speak to him at school. And the blushing. That makes sense now, too. Marinette gapes at him, bewildered. 

“That is, if you don’t-”

“Chat-” she cuts him off, “Take a deep breath and then tell me what you’re trying to say.” She’s beginning to look amused at the whole thing, an improvement from earlier. 

Chat takes a breath. He’s a _superhero_ for crying out loud. This should be much easier than it is. 

“Could I come back? Here? Some other time? Maybe without soup - but I could bring soup, if you wanted, I mean.”

Marinette considers him for a long time. He doesn’t even try not to fidget as he awaits her answer. Some of the concern leaks back on her face, but it’s joined with a kind of curiosity Chat can only hope bodes well. She starts to say something, then stops herself as her gaze strays to a point beyond where Chat stands. Marinette’s still looking past him as her face contorts into doubt: her lower lip juts out and her eyes narrow. A moment later, her expression opens up into surprise, then folds back towards something more reluctant. It’s as if there’s an entire conversation going on without him, featuring Marinette, her face, and the opposite wall of her bedroom. Chat’s turning to see what’s behind him - maybe she’s mentally talking to a poster of him? - when Marinette speaks up, halting him.

“Sure, Chat. Yeah, that’d be… good.”

She sounds hesitant, but her smile is beyond convincing. Without thinking, Chat steps up to her and throws his arms around her with a loud, “Thank you!”

Marinette doesn’t pull away, like before, but she does shush him and jab a thumb to her bedroom door. 

“If you are going to come back,” she whispers, chin barely skimming his shoulder, “You’re going to have to be a _lot_ quieter. If my parents found out anyone, even Chat Noir, was sneaking in through the balcony…”

“I promise! I’ll be silent. Quiet as a cat! You’ll never even hear me, I’ll be so sneaky-”

She presses a hand against his cheek and pushes his face away, parting them and stifling his excited rambling. A giggle slips from her as he gives an indignant squeak and rubs his face as though she’d hit him. Masks, as it turns out, are very effective at covering a reddening face, but Chat is starting to feel the flush burning into his neck. 

“Next time you swing by, if I’m not on the balcony, give the roof door a tap. But if it’s past midnight, don’t even think about it, kitty. A girl’s got to get her beauty sleep.” 

In what is clearly meant to be an overly-dramatic, sarcastic gesture, Marinette flips her hair from her shoulder and pops a hip. _Not like you need it_ dies on Chat’s tongue; he’s dumbfounded by the way the light from her desk lamp seems to cast a bright halo around her radiant (even while sick) visage. Marinette looks good with her hair down, and that’s just the half of it. All he can manage is a nod. 

Sighing, Marinette grabs him by the shoulders and starts steering him towards the ladder to the loft. 

“Good night, Chat,” she says again. 

“Good night, Marinette,” Chat says, “See you to _meow_ row?”

“Not with that joke,” Marinette deadpans. She pushes him up the first step of the ladder, and he reluctantly makes his way up. Careful not to traipse all over her bed, Chat hauls himself up through the small door, then peeks back down.

“Thank you for letting me stay.”

“Thank you for the soup. See you soon, Chat.”

“See you soon.”

He closes the trapdoor, and hears Marinette lock it from the inside a moment later. 

Chat’s knees finally do buckle - it seems to happen alongside the whoosh of breath that the night air punches from his lungs. He’s exhausted, and feels a little clammy now that he’s outside of the warmth of Marinette’s room. Sure, his medicine is likely wearing off, but Chat won’t play coy with himself. It’s not just sick that he’s feeling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yaaaay! Part two for my lovely parent, arejayelle. Look, look at what you have created!
> 
> COME BY AND TALK TO ME ABOUT ANYTHING:
> 
> brettanomycroft.tumblr.com


	3. recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The only thing falling faster than Chat are those awful, awful puns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aka 6000 words of 'why aren't they kissing already'
> 
> i know, i know
> 
> also yes the chapter count went up.

In spite of how tedious they often ended up, patrol nights never ceased to whip Chat into exhilaration. After an endless day of schedules and expectations, to fling himself out into the Parisian night, unhindered, always made the mornings to follow bearable. The city was a different beast at night: from above, light after flickering light cut a sinuous path through the dark like so many coiling snakes. Even though the raucous noise of the day simmered down with the setting sun, the moonlit streets held their own music, the very kind that hummed deep in his bones and promised shadowed alleys, breathless pursuit, and bad, bad luck.

And that’s how Chat feels even _without_ Ladybug. His love of night patrols always skyrockets the moment he glimpses that streak of bright red. His heart always stutters in his chest at the sound of her footsteps, approaching him on the roof.

Or at least, it used to.

A hot weight still curls in Chat’s belly the moment Ladybug drops down next to him. It’s just… it’s just that it’s more indulgent, napping cat than untameable, roused beast. Still there. But not.

“M’Ladybug,” Chat purrs. He ducks into a bow - does not grab her hand, does not feel so much a surge as a quiver of a blush touch his cheeks. 

“ _Bonsoir, Chat_ ,” she says. There’s still a nasal touch to her voice - still congested, then.

He pulls from his bow and grins. “It looks like you’re _feline_ better tonight.”

When Ladybug laughs, Chat basks in it, nearly forgetting the girl on the balcony. That pleasant weight in his gut starts to feel more like a sinking stone when his heart speeds up with Ladybug’s smile. What is he doing?

“I am. And you’re recovering as well?”

“Never felt better. A dose of Ladybug works better than any other cure I've heard of.”

Her smile holds as she smacks him lightly on the shoulder. “I'll have to try that next time - I just waited on the soup and cold medicine to kick in.”

The soup reminds him of last night, which doesn't help - not in the slightest. Just as Marinette’s face slides into the foreground, Chat’s brain catches on something.

“How did you know I was sick?”

Ladybug, already geared up to start their patrol, stops her spinning yo-yo mid-swing. It clunks gracelessly back down on the rooftop. 

“What?”

“I forgot to contact you last night, saying I was sick. But you knew that I was recovering, meaning you knew that I was sick.”

Maybe it’s Chat’s imagination, but for the briefest of seconds, Ladybug looks stricken. Whatever crosses her face, it passes in the next moment. In its place, a sweet look of concern. 

“I… It’s not that I didn't trust you, Chat,” she says, “But I was worried about you getting hurt. So I checked the Ladyblog last night, just to… You know…” Ladybug folds her hands in front of her and ducks her head, suitably embarrassed. “When no new pictures or reports from the night came in, I figured you must have been sick too, and skipped the patrol. There’s always a new picture when one of us patrols.”

It makes so much sense. Any doubt in Chat’s mind is burned by the honest heat of her stare as she waits for his reaction. Chat can't help but feel overwhelmed: Ladybug avoided the Ladyblog like the plague, so for her to read it, just for him… That was something.

“Your kindness is unmatchable,” he breathes. She smiles and puts both hands on her hips. 

“You’re going to be singing a different tune soon, Chat, because I’m working us both to the bone tonight. There’s a lot of work to catch up on. We’re lucky the streets stayed akuma-free as long as they did.”

There’s no need for words as they pitch themselves off of the roof and over the streets. Two cogs of the same machine, Ladybug and Chat move in perfect synchrony. Words aren't needed, not after this long: Ladybug knows when the gap between buildings is too long for Chat and wraps an arm around his waist to effortlessly swing them both over with her yo-yo; Chat grabs Ladybug by the wrist and extends his baton to offer them a cat’s eye view of the city. One hundred feet up, she balances neatly in his lap. 

They never talk, not once patrols start, and it plucks at Chat as it often has before. Banter is saved for battle. With Ladybug, there’s no room for small talk. He can't tell if it’s a protection, or if she’s simply so focused that it never crosses her mind. Maybe he should be more focused - he has a job to do - but sometimes it’s hard to concentrate when she’s right there, pressed to his side, arms around each other but perfectly innocent, smelling of spice and sweetness and-

“Chat? Chat!”

Chat startles. Ladybug’s luck must have rubbed off on him on this solitary occasion, as his sudden jolt doesn't send them careening down into the streets. He cocks his head to look at her.

“What’s up LB?”

“I said, ‘Does that sound like screaming, Chat?’. And then you said nothing and kept staring in the opposite direction,” Ladybug says flatly. 

Chat rubs the back of his neck and is preparing an apologetic grin when he’s saved by the sound of a shriek. 

“Yes, that definitely sounds like screaming,” he says, already beginning to retract and tilt the baton supporting them. Ladybug slings out her yo-yo, and they’re speeding towards the sound. 

“I swear-” Ladybug huffs and they’re running across a rooftop. She doesn't continue until after they swing through a busy intersection and are back above the streets.

“It’s insane that they call you Chat Noir-”

Screams pierce the air, and the duo corners to readjust their trajectory. Close, they drop down from the rooftops and continue their pursuit on foot. This close to what is increasingly sounding like an akuma attack, the streets and sidewalks are empty.

“When sometimes you are _such_ a bird-brain.”

Ladybug grins at him, panting, pleased at her own joke. 

“Careful, you’re getting as bad as me,” he shoots back. 

Ladybug’s groans are drowned out by a blasting voice from the opposite end of the square they’ve just entered. 

“Oh good! Just what the doctor ordered!” a man booms.

Young, decked in a tight, black bodysuit and a flowing white coat, the man hovering over a pile of unmoving bodies has no doubt been possessed by an akuma. More people litter the square, motionless but for the blinking of eyes or the fish-like gaping of mouths. From his left, Chat hears Ladybug gasp. 

“I’m Night Shift,” the akuma continues, “And I’ll be the doctor treating you today!”

“What have you done to these people?” Ladybug shouts. She sinks into a defensive stance, hand on the yo-yo at her waist. Chat follows suit, pulling his baton off of his back. Night Shift crosses his arms over his chest and shrugs. A silver stethoscope glimmers around his neck.

“They were feeling under the weather, so I recommended some well-earned bedrest.”

He puts a finger to his lips, faux-contemplative. There’s a dangerous glint in the akuma’s eyes as he says, “But then again, you too aren’t looking so hot either... Why- don’t- you- SLEEP IT OFF!”

Ladybug and Chat split in opposite directions the moment Night Shift flings his hand towards them - this isn’t their first rodeo. A swarm of tiny needles glint as they whiz past the two superheroes and fall uselessly to the ground a moment later. Chat doesn’t miss how close a few of them come to finding a home in Ladybug’s arm, and gauging by the scowl on her face as she whirls her yo-yo into a bright pink blur, neither does she. 

“Careful, Bug - he might have a _point_!” Chat cackles as he vaults himself up towards Night Shift. He connects with the doctor’s coat and tugs Night Shift down. Ladybug’s yo-yo encircles Night Shift in the next heartbeat, perfectly timed as ever. 

“ _Needle_ me anymore, Chat, and I might just let him cure you of your terrible jokes,” she shouts. She gives the yo-yo a harsh yank, and both Night Shift and Chat come crashing to the ground. 

It’s then that Chat feels the prick.

He pushes Night Shift off of him and staggers up, clutching his right shoulder. 

“Chat?”

Woozy, he doesn’t notice Night Shift struggling against the yo-yo’s binding string. Chat blinks slowly and pinches at the needle that’s speared through his suit and into his skin. An itchy tingle radiates out from where he pulls the needle out. 

“Watch out for the needles, obviously,” Chat says, but it comes out sounding like molasses mush. 

Taking advantage of the distraction, Night Shift tugs the last coil of the yo-yo away from his arm and begins to stand. Ladybug and Chat turn at the same time, but Chat is only halfway there by the time Ladybug is running. He clutches the baton in his hand, but his fingers fumble with the button to extend it. Chat can’t feel them, can’t feel his fingers. Switching the baton over to his other hand, Chat flicks his wrist and curls his fingers. Nothing but the creeping, slightly aching pain of a limb that’s fallen asleep. It’s spreading dangerously: his breath becomes more labored, he can’t quite feel his lips.

“Watch out!” Ladybug yells. She’s holding off Night Shift’s attacks, yo-yo spinning in front of her. The needles ricochet off of her shield, and a handful are flung in Chat’s direction. He’s barely able to bat them off with his baton, but he’s been seriously slowed and isn’t nearly as good in a fight with his left hand. 

Ladybug summons her Lucky Charm - an unwieldy looking gurney, of all things. 

Chat charges at Night Shift, but it comes from his body as more of a slow jog. Night Shift scarcely pays attention to his approach. 

“Doctor, Doctor!” Chat calls, working hard to make all of the parts of his mouth work properly. Night Shift glances over, and Ladybug reacts immediately and shoves the gurney. “I think I’m feeling… Faint.”

Whatever paralytic the needles were laced with kicks in fully, and Chat’s knees buckle. He collapses onto Night Shift just as the gurney slams into the akuma’s waist. Night Shift falls, Chat following on top of him and pinning him in place on the gurney. It would probably be more uncomfortable if Chat could actually feel anything. Worryingly, Chat can’t feel the expansion of his own chest, doesn't quite know if he’s breathing. 

“You okay?” Ladybug asks, rushing over. 

Chat can't answer, can't move his mouth or feel his face. Ladybug hastily pulls the stethoscope off of Night Shift’s neck and rips it in two. The akuma flaps out, and Ladybug whips her yo-yo around to purify it. A white butterfly escapes, flying off to who knows where. 

She turns her attention back to them. Frowning, blue eyes flick from Chat to the gurney. 

“Normally I throw the object from my Lucky Charm, but…” The gurney, stacked now with two bodies, is far from flingable. Chat’s beginning to panic, but nothing moves or shakes when he tries to act. To say he wishes she’d hurry would be an understatement.

Ladybug places a hand on the gurney, expression uncertain.

“Miraculous Ladybug?” she says.

Pink flashes beneath him, and the gurney erupts into a flurry of red and black. He feels a fluttering of energy course through his body - so bright, so brilliant. All of the evil is undone around him, and the gurney disappears. Night Shift - or, rather, the man who had been akumatized - falls to the ground. Chat plummets towards the ground as well, limbs still too sluggish to catch himself.

“Easy there, Kitty,” Ladybug murmurs, stepping over the man and catching him the split-second before he bites it.

Chat takes a gasping breath. Even with Ladybug’s cleansing light drawing the poison from him, he still feels exhausted, slow-moving. Gently, she lowers him to the ground. Slumped over, Chat watches with dazed interest as the man who had been possessed - a young, tired-looking resident doctor, stirs and begins asking what happened. 

“Pound it,” Ladybug says softly, holding her fist out. He groggily returns the gesture. It feels good to breathe again, it feels good to be in Ladybug’s arms. 

In tandem, both of their Miraculous beep. Ladybug disentangles from Chat’s limp form, but keeps a hand on his shoulder for support.

“We should go. Are you going to be able to get home safely?” Ladybug asks.

“I’ll make it back to my _pad_ just fine,” Chat says weakly, tapping the pawprint (one pad down) on his ring for emphasis. Ladybug snorts and stands up. He’s able to support himself, but only just.

“À bientôt, Chat,” she says. Hesitation scores her movements - she can't settle on whether to stay, and risk their identities, or go and test his recovery. 

“I'll be _purrfectly_ fine,” he says to her unasked question, “Good night, Ladybug.”

He stands (shakily) and extends his baton, levering himself up to the nearest rooftop with a grin and a small salute. Ladybug shoots him a worried glance before darting off in the opposite direction. Every muscle in his body beats with the dull ache of overuse, and he couldn't even deny his exhaustion if he'd wanted to. Two whole days of being sick, followed up by a jacked up tranquilizer inserted directly into his system an energetic Chat did not make. He slides onto the roof and takes his leap to the next one at half speed.

…

From here, Marinette’s roof looks good. It’s only a few blocks from home, and there’s nothing in Chat’s body that isn't protesting over any further motion. He’d have to ask Ladybug about the extent of her miraculous cure next time, because Night Shift’s attack still hadn't fully worn off yet. Sure, Chat could breathe, but his muscles weren’t working for much.

All of the lights in the building are off, and it’s with sinking heart Chat realizes Marinette must be asleep. It’s not like he’d expected her to stay up all night, and after the akuma attack, he hadn't even planned on stopping in (though he’d thought about it earlier - hadn't he promised to _meow_ row?). And then there was Ladybug, with her snappy retorts and cute jokes and concerned smile. 

Chat should simply make the extra push to get home. He is the last thing Marinette needs.

He’s turning the corner, scaling from one side of the bakery’s roof to the other, when he sees her. In an unusual and surely unrelated turn of events, Chat’s body gives out. Chat tries to call to her in warning, but instead spills himself all over her balcony. His baton, released, goes flying - Marinette snatches it out of the air with a poise that seems to startle even her.

The ceramic tile of her balcony is cool under his overheated form. He doesn't care that he’s on his belly, at her feet, face pressed to the floor. At least he’s not moving anymore.

“C-Chat?”

“Pardon me… For dropping in,” Chat says, stifling a yawn, “The monster I just fought with Ladybug had a certain knack for… wiping me out.”

“Surfing akuma?”

He shakes his head. “Doctor.”

Marinette is silent, though he can hear her shuffling around on the balcony. She scoots the chair, likely moves around some flowerpots, dawdles over something.

“Are you… okay?” she asks.

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Chat says. He starts to push himself up, so he can, at the very least, see her face. His arms wobble, muscles burning, and he collapses back onto the floor. 

“Just… tired. I'm fine.”

“You don't look fine, Chat.”

Before he can reply, Marinette daintily steps over him and slips down into her room. Chat has a full ten seconds to start thinking she’s abandoned him up there, and another ten to groan when the pillow she tosses through the skylight hits him square in the face. The weight of a comforter hits him next with a loud ‘fwump’. Chat stirs just enough to maneuver the pillow underneath his head and the blanket over him. 

He hears Marinette climb down the stairs from her bed and retreat to the distant side of her room. There’s the sound of running water. Chat has the blanket fully pulled up to his chin and has arranged himself to stare at her with wide, pathetic eyes when she finally shimmies her way back onto the roof. Marinette sits at the edge of the opening, dangling her legs, and leans back to hand him a glass of water. When she catches a glimpse of his face, she snorts.

“ _Pauvre Chaton_ ,” Marinette says, rolling her eyes. Nonetheless, she reaches over and rearranges the blanket, so that it fully covers his back and legs. Her touch is feather-light, and through a layer of blanket and the thickness of his suit, should not make his skin burn the way it does. 

“Thank you, Marinette,” he whispers, “You didn't have to-”

She cuts him off. “I know I didn’t. It’s late and I've been sick. But you went out of your way to make sure I was alright, taken care of. This is hardly the same effort for me, but it’s the least I can do to return the favor.”

Her words are hard but her voice, soft, and her hand settles on his back when she finishes smoothing out the blanket. The pressure of her hand between his shoulder blades, paired with the surprising comfort of the cool balcony floor and warm blanket, do little to keep him from sinking deeper into his tired state. 

“Besides, what would Paris do if Chat Noir got sick again from being out in the cold all night?”

“Get saved by Ladybug,” he says with a soft chuckle. 

From where he lays on his stomach, her back is angled towards him - Chat can’t quite see her face. She kicks her legs, head tilted down towards her room. A few seconds later, Marinette laughs too.

“You’re probably right.”

Chat turns onto his side and curls around the blanket, facing her. 

“Want to hear how I almost died, Princess?”

Suddenly, Marinette is a flurry of motion. She tenses and turns all at once, spinning around until her knees almost knock his nose. 

“ _Died?_ ” It’s as close to a shriek as she can whisper, and her face reflects the tightness in her throat. In dim light it’s hard to tell, but he thinks she may have paled. “What are you talking about, Chat?”

He’d meant it to sound like a joke, maybe a way to tease her a bit, make himself seem like the brave, powerful hero, so casually brushing off his near-death, but her look takes all the spark from _that_. 

“I mean, I’m fine-”

“Chat…” 

“Well, you see, I did almost stop breathing, but that’s-”

“Stopped breathing?”

That’s fear. That’s fear in Marinette’s face, the wide-eyed, slack-jawed, disbelieving sort. Hurriedly, Chat pushes himself up and puts both hands on her shoulders. 

“Marinette, Marinette, I’m fine, it’s okay-”

“No, that’s not-” but she can’t seem to get the words out, and puffs her cheeks in frustration instead.

“I didn’t mean to freak you out,” Chat says, “I’m perfectly okay now - a bit tired, but fine. The akuma we fought tonight had some kind of crazy paralytic and I got hit with it and couldn’t feel any of my body and for some reason I’m and idiot and thought that’d be such a _daring_ story to tell, but I’m fine.”

Marinette exhales harshly, cheeks deflating. Concern snaps into anger.

“You are an idiot,” she snaps, “Don’t you _dare_ joke about that!”

Deserving or not, Chat’s not the fondest of reprimand. He pulls away and wraps the blanket back over him. 

“Didn’t realize you cared so much, Princess,” he mumbles. Glaring at the ground, Chat pouts. 

“You’re an idiot,” Marinette says again.

With a sigh, Marinette pushes off of the edge of the skylight and drops down into her room. Chat is tempted to call after her, apologize, beg her to stay, but he still has more pouting to do. The pit forming under his chest is from hunger, surely. If Marinette wanted to leave him on the roof, then fine, she could. He needed to get back to the mansion as it was, as soon as the weariness wore away a bit more. The roof wasn’t the worst place to snag a quick rest. Chat flips over and huddles over on his other side. 

Her blanket smells like her. It’s impossible to determine if it’s his heightened senses as Chat, or if it’s just that potent, but cinnamon, sweat, and something softer, sweeter, cling to the comforter enfolding him and pillow beneath him. Chat really hopes she comes back.

He falls asleep before he ever finds out.

...

It’s a sudden spike of cold that wakes Adrien from his deep, dreamless sleep. With an unhappy grunt, he buries himself deeper under his covers, only to hit hard ground with his right shoulder.

“I'm sooooooo hungry,” a high voice whines, “Why are you the woooorst?”

“Plagg?” Adrien mumbles, “It’s not even light out yet. Go back to sleep. Let _me_ go back to sleep.”

“Nu-uh, no way. I didn't expend all of my energy keeping up Chat Noir just for you to blow our cover on the balcony of some girl you’re pretending not to have a crush on.”

Wakefulness hits Adrien like a sledgehammer. He jolts up. The comforter around his body traps him at first, adding to his delirious confusion. Where is he? What time is it? Why is everything so… pink?

From some place above his head comes Plagg’s angry huffs. The world of pink around him shifts, and Plagg successfully peels away the part of the comforter that had been wrapped around his head.

Plagg probably doesn’t have to breathe, but that doesn’t stop the harsh pants that escape his tiny body. He darts from one side of Adrien’s head to the other, muttering under his breath, agitated. Adrien’s never seen Plagg so angry. A moment later, he processes why.

Adrien is outside, completely untransformed, on Marinette’s balcony. Wrapped in her comforter. Alone, but for Plagg.

“Oh sh-”

“Shut it!” Plagg hisses. The anger in the kwami’s voice seeps into a whine at the end of his words - Plagg droops a moment later. “I held onto that transformation for almost seven hours,” he continues, “I'm soooooo tired and soooooo not up to getting caught.”

It must be three or four in the morning. Adrien is without his phone, so it’s impossible to tell, but given that it was closer to ten when Chat and Ladybug finished up with the akuma and Chat started working his way home, it’s doubtlessly way too late. Shedding the comforter, Adrien stands. 

“Get down!” Plagg says, swooping down to pummel Adrien’s head with his small body. Adrien ducks down at his command, and is gearing up to protest when Plagg snaps, “If some crazy Chat Noir fan followed you as Chat, then saw Adrien stand up, we’d be toast! And not the spread-brie-over kind!”

“We’ve got to get home,” Adrien whispers.

“No duh.”

“But I can't get down here safely as Adrien.”

“Also no duh.”

“But if I go in through the skylight, I'll wake up Marinette.”

“Yep.”

“She was pretty mad at me.”

“Didn’t seem like it when she was all cuddled up next to you last night.”

“I really should apolo- _What?_ ”

And Adrien thought Stormy Weather’s freak climate change was unnatural - the temperature around him now skyrockets dangerously. He rustles the blankets, shaking them out as if, as if what? Marinette would fall out of them? Adrien looks around the balcony, baffled. There was no evidence that Marinette had ever come back up to the balcony, but there also seemed no reason for Plagg to lie. The kwami only liked teasing Adrien about the things that were painfully true. 

“She came back up? And then… stayed?”

“Oh yeah, with a blanket and everything. She seemed annoyed when she saw you’d passed out, but it’s not like she made it much later. Fell asleep right next to you minutes later. It had to be close to 1 am when she finally woke up.”

“Oh…” 

If he tries hard, really focuses, Adrien can almost feel the imprint Marinette’s sleeping form must have left against his back. He’s certain it’s been etched into the very air around him, and if he edges back ever-so-slightly, he might find himself wrapped in her warmth.

“Nope, nuh-uh, no you don't!” Plagg says, shattering Adrien’s brief reverie, “If you do not get a hold of yourself _now_ , you will never be able to convince me to transform you to visit her again.”

He crosses his arms against his chest and buzzes angrily around Adrien’s head in emphasis. Adrien would push Plagg away, but honestly, Adrien deserves it. Plagg was the last thing on his mind when he collapsed onto the roof hours ago, despite being the only one keeping up Chat’s appearances. 

“Well, there’s no way down if we can't transform,” Adrien says, “And you’re not charged up or anything.”

Plagg grumbles something Adrien can't hear.

“What?”

“I _said_ that _somehow_ you lucked out this time. Literally. Your lady love-”

“Plagg, don’t-”

“Has earned my conditional approval by bringing up sandwiches before she went to bed.”

By the time Adrien processes what Plagg means, Plagg is in the middle of dive bombing the folding chair a few feet away. Upon impact, the entire chair rattles and, unexpectedly, clinks. 

Adrien scoots over to the chair, being sure not to show himself through the balcony railing. On a small, white plate, Plagg nestles between the quarters of a few sandwiches that had been cut into pieces. He nibbles happily at the corner of one while tugging a slice of cheese from one of the others.

“Cheese, glorious cheese! My one true love!” Plagg exclaims between bites.

There might be twice as much sandwich as kwami, but Adrien leaves all of it to Plagg, only shooting him an annoyed, “You knew these sandwiches were here and you still complained my ear off over it?”

…

Adrien sleeps through his alarm. Nathalie doesn't come further than the door on the off chance he’s still sick. When he wakes, hours later and in his own bed, he finds himself even colder and just as lacking in Marinette as he was before.

…

Patrol that night proceeds effortlessly. Ladybug is on heightened watch, each motion more precise, exact, and (he realizes as the night goes on) tense. She talks to him more, but it’s with an anxious energy Chat hasn't seen since the days after they dealt with Time Breaker. When she swings them across wide avenues, she grips more tightly than usual.

Chat would be flattered if he weren't so keen on visiting Marinette and thanking her for the blanket and sandwiches. Not only had he failed to make her blush the night before, but he’s upset her - both he planned to rectify that night.

He rushes through his goodbyes with Ladybug and sprints across the Paris towards Marinette’s.

Her lights are off. Trapdoor closed. 

Chat sighs and heads back to his house.

(There’s a splash of red and a sigh that lands on her balcony moments later, but he’s already turned tail.)

…

“So… euh… you’re just going to keep showing up now? Regularly?”

Marinette looks concerned. Her mouth is screwed up to one side and there’s a bit of a wrinkle to her nose that Chat finds utterly adorable. She crosses her arms over her chest and sits back in her desk chair, waiting for Chat’s response.

With a sheepish smile, Chat lifts one of the fallen dress forms off of him and attempts to set it right. He contains the impulse to wince when he accidentally sits on one of the pins shaken free from the clothing Marinette had set up on the form. Counter to what is often the case when it comes to Chat, he’s hit a rare moment of luck: none of the actual pieces Marinette had been working on fell apart when Chat accidentally tipped over not one, but three of her mannequins. And, on top of that, she hadn’t kicked him out. Yet.

“Ah…” he starts, “Yes? Unless you want me to stop. Your wish is my command.”

He has the other two dress forms upright and the clothing attached to them back in proper place before she responds. 

Marinette had accepted both his apology and his thanks for what happened a few nights ago, albeit with a rather sharp 'You do not joke about almost getting killed just to show off’ clause added in. Dusk had been sprawling over the city as Chat discreetly pulled himself over the railing of her balcony and tapped on the skylight to her room, but now the sky out her windows is black. He’d interrupted her homework, begged her attention for his apology, and made a rather embarrassing mess of her room in less time than it took for the sun to set. Chat hopes sweet, kind Marinette doesn’t ask him to leave, but then again, much of her sweetness seems to be replaced with spine whenever it’s him that’s around. If he were here as Adrien, would she make him go?

“Pff, fine, you can stay,” Marinette says, waving a hand. Quieter, but still loud enough for Chat to hear even without enhanced abilities, she follows up with a, “Those big kitten eyes are too effective.”

All of the joy that courses through his chest is pumped out into his legs: Chat sets himself into a victorious, shuffling dance - wary, of course, of the newly righted dress forms. Marinette pulls a face and plops down in her desk chair. 

“Alright, here’s the deal, Kitty,” Marinette starts, and wow, does he ever like the way that nickname rolls off of her tongue, “You can stay. And when you decide to drop in, the same rules apply: lights off, let me sleep. Additionally, if I’m working on homework, you’ll have to find something else to do around here to entertain yourself… _Without_ destroying my things.”

Chat nods along with every condition. He hadn’t flubbed up everything. She was going to keep letting him visit, keep letting him _stay_. 

“But of course, Marinette,” he says once she’s finished. Chat tips into a deep bow. 

When he straightens, he finds that Marinette has spun around in her desk chair and is bent back over her homework. Chat meanders around her room for a few minutes, officially left to his own devices. His posters - the Adrien posters - are still plastered on her walls, though he notices now plenty of pictures of other people too. There’s a picture of Marinette with her parents (he remembered her giant of a father from Parent’s day, but seeing Marinette between him and her petite, slender mother suddenly makes much more sense), and a photo of her and Alya in grade school, if he had to guess. They’re both dressed up, perhaps for a play: Alya pouts from under an oversized paper crown, seeming out of place in the poofy pink fairy dress she’s been forced in; Marinette beams at the camera, whiskers dashed across her face in black paint. Fuzzy, black cat ears and a black leotard complete the ensemble. It might be the most adorable thing Chat has ever seen, and Chat has seen Marinette blushing at the end of his bed before. 

The next picture holds his attention for longer than is decent. A group shot, Chat recognizes most of the faces in it as students from their class, just a tad younger. Juleka, Alya, Kim, Alix, and Marinette all pose arm-in-arm on the beach. To the left of them is a Nino-shaped blur, likely the result of a photo timer gone off a little too soon. They’re all smiling - even Juleka - and all in swimwear - even Marinette. Chat recognizes the piece she’s wearing as part of his father’s line, a navy blue, one-piece halter with an attached, poppy red skirt bottom. Marinette’s much softer, less muscular in the picture, though it had been taken less than a year ago, but the bathing suit still compliments her shape. The fabric clings gently at her waist and around her hips. It looks much nicer than he remembers it looking on the models, and Chat really should turn away or move on before Marinette notices him eyeing that one, because boy, would he be in trouble. He remembers how much Nino had talked about the class trip they’d taken at the end of last school year; Nino had discussed _that_ extensively. Adrien hadn’t understood what the fuss was about at the time, but he gets it now. More than ever, he regrets how long his father kept him in homeschooling. 

Chat spins away from the picture and continues around Marinette’s room in the least suspect fashion he can manage. Marinette hardly seems disturbed by his presence. She chugs along at her homework, muttering under her breath and tapping out notes on her tablet. He strolls by her low bookshelf and raises an eyebrow at the collection of slim novels clearly marked at teen romance, then spots her school bag by the door. The corner of her history book pokes out from the top. 

It’s an ugly reminder. Having missed two days of school this close to the end of term, he’s behind in his studies. The responsible thing to do would be to go back to the mansion, get a grip on his life, and study. But Marinette makes little puffing sounds and tiny squawks when she’s working through her homework, and Chat’s not sure he wants to give that up for the empty-feeling cavern he calls his bedroom. Chat carefully pulls the book out and walks back over to Marinette’s desk.

“Mind if I do a little… light reading?”

Given the way she jumps at his voice, Marinette may have forgotten he was even there. Her mouth pops into a surprised ‘o’, and her stylus skitters across the desk. Chat isn’t sure how much cute Marinette he can handle in one visit, but he’s willing to test it out.

“My apologies, Princess, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No, sorry, I guess I just got really in the zone…” she frowns, “Did you know you’re almost silent when you move around?”

Chat throws on a grin and a wink, “It’s just my catlike reflexes. Anyway, is it alright if I read this?” He holds the textbook up. 

“What, are you secretly 5,000 years old and in need of a quick refresher?” Marinette teases. 

He takes that as a yes, and settles onto the chaise lounge before saying, “Nah, Ladybug’s the only senior citizen in our power duo. I like going back through _purr_ story and discovering all of the ways my kind were honored in the past. Did you know that the Ancient Egyptians revered cats and sometimes even treated them like gods? They’d even preserve and mummify their cats!”

Chat flips the book open to the chapter on Egyptian history and waves the book around, as if to prove a point. Marinette sinks back into her chair and groans. “I wish I could keep _you_ under wraps,” she says.

“Please, it would take more than a few bandages to tame Chat Noir.”

“Maybe a muzzle, then,” she says flatly.

“Me-owch!” Chat yelps. His brain goes one-thousand different ways at that, and the blood in his body goes, for the most part, straight to his head. It takes a series of controlled, deep breaths, and gives himself a light smack to the forehead with her book. 

Chat finds the chapter they’re working on in class. He peeks over the edge of the textbook to find Marinette shaking her head at him. A smile worms up one side of her face, and then spreads to the other. Laughter overtakes her a moment after, a full, bubbling sound that leaves him feeling flush. He chuckles, but raises the book higher, hiding the red stripe that burns along his cheeks. 

Their laughter dies down and is gradually replaced by turning pages and all of Marinette’s soft sounds. Chat feels himself relax, cozy and content. 

From then until the moment Marinette kicks him out, begging sleep, Chat - Adrien - feels just like himself. 

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHECK OUT THE AMAZING FANART OUTSIDETHECAVERN MADE FOR CHAPTER TWO: http://outsidethecavern.tumblr.com/post/136756861444/i-dont-know-what-im-doing-but-i-have-jumped-on
> 
> Come *chat* with me sometime: brettanomycroft.tumblr.com


	4. kiss and make it better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chat's got a fever, and the only cure is more Marinette.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank everyone so much for all of their amazing responses and support! Please note that the rating has been raised to T >_> heh heh heh

“Did you see the video from that akuma attack last night?”

Alya’s voice echoes down the hallway, loud enough to be heard before Adrien even reaches the classroom. He smiles at that - the infamous Ladyblogger didn’t seem to have an off switch, even at seven in the morning. It was as strange as it was heartening, having such a big fan of him and Ladybug sat right behind him in class. 

“You know I didn’t, Alya,” a voice pipes up. Marinette. 

Adrien can’t tell if he should speed up or slow down. Seeing Marinette’s face (always painted pink when she looks at him, Adrien) is a compelling reason to enter class, but at the same time, he’s curious to hear what the two girls have to say about Ladybug and (hopefully) her dashing partner. It’s early, the hallways mostly empty of anyone who might question why he’s lingering outside of the classroom. He waits.

“I still don’t get why you’re not all about Ladybug and Chat Noir,” Alya huffs, “They’re pretty much the two coolest people ever.”

Marinette laughs heartily. He can practically envision her rolling her eyes - she’s preternaturally good at amused indignance. “It’s not that I don’t care about them,” she says, “It’s just that I’ve got enough on my plate without obsessing over two spandex superhumans, unlike _someone_ I know…”

There’s more laughter, and a brief scuffle Adrien can only assume is some kind of play fight. When their giggles die down, Marinette speaks again. “Okay, fine, show me the video.”

“I knew I’d win you over, girl,” Alya says.

“Yeah, yeah…”

At this point, Adrien’s looming is bordering on creepy, but he hasn’t gotten caught yet. As devoid of people as the school is, Adrien has to guess that the flu is still running rampant. It’s currently proving to work to his advantage. From the classroom drift the tinny sounds of screams and rumbling. Last night’s akuma hadn’t been particularly difficult for him and Ladybug to take down, but it had certainly put on quite the show.

“Did you see that?” Alya exclaims, “Look at Ladybug’s sick move there with the street sign! Her reflexes have got to be amazing.”

“But did you see Chat’s dodge there? He not only managed disarm the akuma, but open up an attack for Ladybug and avoid getting hit. That’s really impressive.”

The warmth and pride that radiates from her voice nearly does him in then and there. Adrien wants to see her face, see how she watches him on the screen of Alya’s phone. He makes up his mind and enters the classroom.

It doesn’t matter that Marinette clams up after meekly greeting him. He’d had enough time to see the fond smile tugging at her lips as she watched Alya’s video, and _then_ had been graced with her enchanting blush as she noticed his presence. As he slides into his seat and flashes a grin at Marinette, Adrien is sure that there’s no way his day could get any better.

…

He’s right, it doesn’t, at least not immediately. In class, they’re hit with the load of their final reviews before exams, coming up in the next week. Afterwards, he’s whisked off to a seemingly endless photoshoot, where he’d been berated more than once for ‘Not taking things seriously enough’. It’s not his fault the photographer wanted stoic and gripping when Adrien’s heart was overloaded with images of Marinette tucking a blanket over him, or of her long, bare legs. Besides, wasn’t ‘dreamy’ a good look?

Patrol proves boring as well, though Ladybug lightens some of the ennuyeux with some gentle teasing over how much he seems to be spacing out. It’s close to 11 when he finally pads across Marinette’s roof and knocks on the door. Her lights are still on, but she’s already in bed and in the middle of searching for something on her tablet. 

“It’s about time,” Marinette grumbles when he peers down from the skylight opening. She pats the space on the bed beside her. “I was about to start the episode without you. You can stay for one, and then I’ve got to get some sleep.”

He eases himself down, careful to prop his feet up on the rail at the end of her bed. Marinette tosses him a pillow, then pulls up a video on her tablet. 

Chat doesn’t ask what they’re watching, or why she was waiting for him. If he’s honest, he doesn’t even pay that much attention to the episode - some anime Marinette’s clearly a few episodes into already. Instead, he basks, cat-like, in the warmth of the girl at his side.

…

Ladybug cancels patrol a few evenings later, claiming some kind of last-minute family emergency. _Nothing serious_ , she promises, _Just something I can’t get out of._

It takes every ounce of self-control in his bones not to rush over to Marinette’s. It’s still early in the evening, and while he’s come over before sunset before, it’s significantly riskier and much more likely to result in him waiting for her to finish her homework. Not that he minds - it gives him the excuse to discreetly study as well - but Adrien is in the kind of mood to talk and maybe watch another episode of that cartoon she’s finally got him hooked on. Besides, she and Chloé had a nasty run-in today, and he can’t help but want to make sure she’s okay. But the timing’s not right. So Adrien dawdles around his room, checking the Ladyblog, putting up with Plagg, and scratching at some homework as the hours pass like tree sap. 

Finally, Paris is lit up with streetlights and neon instead of sun, and Adrien is done with his work. He looks up from his computer and stares Plagg down expectantly.

“Whaddyou waaant?” Plagg groans, as if he doesn’t already know.

“I had the kitchen staff order an especially pungent aged Camembert last week…”

“But I don’t wannaaa!”

“And you know I can’t leave on my own…”

“We just visited her last night!”

“You know we didn’t Plagg. We didn’t go last night or the night before. Besides, you know you like her too.”

Plagg scowls and vehemently shakes his head. “Do not! _She’s_ a girl. _I_ like cheese!”

“Don’t think I haven’t figured out Chat Noir,” Adrien says with a smirk, “That’s not _all_ me.”

Sighing dramatically, Plagg flops down on Adrien’s shoulder. “I only like her sandwiches,” he says, still stubborn. Nonetheless, he obliges a minute later when Adrien asks to transform.

He can’t get to Marinette’s quickly enough. This time, Chat forgoes the winding, ever-changing route he usually takes to get to her rooftop (he understands the risks of being followed), and goes directly but discreetly there. 

Her lights, as he’d hoped are on, but there’s no response when he knocks on the door down to her room. Chat bounces on the balls of his feet and glares at the skylight entry, as if it were its fault that Marinette isn’t responding. She’s not in bed - he can see that much - but he has no vision past the loft. He bends over and raps on the door again.

“ _Just let yourself in._ ”

Marinette’s voice drifts up to him. Her voice is quiet, distant - it’s her normal speaking voice, with the expectation that he’d still be able to hear her. Chat doesn’t waste a heartbeat in throwing open the trapdoor and dropping down into Marinette’s room. 

“Rough day?” Chat asks.

She’s sprawled across the chaise lounge, eye closed and a hand pressed to her forehead. Were if not for her calling him down, Chat might think she was asleep. She is covered, from head to toe, in flour. Marinette grunts in reply.

“You know, I’m pretty sure the flour is supposed to go _in_ the bread, Princess.”

“It’s going to go all over your nice black suit if you don’t drop it,” she says. 

“You’d have to come up here and get me first,” Chat teases, letting the rest of his thought - _and press yourself up against me_ \- got unsaid. 

Marinette lets out an exasperated groan, but remains motionless.

“Your parents make you work in the bakery today?”

“Yeah. We got a stupid rush order from stupid Mayor Bourgeois all for some stupid Christmas party. If I have to even _look_ at another sugar cookie I think I’ll be sick.”

Rather than take the steps, Chat rolls over the railing of her bed and slides down the support pole to the main level. He strolls over to the chaise and grins down at Marinette. Her eyes flutter open. Even a scowl looks sweet on her face.

“What?” she asks. 

“You’re a mess, Mari. You need some grooming…” 

Chat leans in, waggling his eyebrows. “Cats are quite good at grooming,” he says.

He can’t tell under the all of the flour, but Chat assumes she goes red from the way she looks away, chagrined. 

“I swear, Chaton, if you’re even _thinking_ about licking me…” Marinette is unable to finish her sentence, so she reaches out and pushes his face away with her hand. She snickers at the powdery handprint left on his cheek - Chat counts it as a success.

He backs away and goes over to the small sink and vanity on the other side of Marinette’s room. There’s a washcloth already on the edge of the sink, which he dampens and brings back. 

“Sit up,” Chat says as he kneels down next to her. 

“I can clean up without help, _Maman_ ,” Marinette says, but she sits up nonetheless.

She frowns as he raises the washcloth to her face. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll be deli _cat_ ,” he says.

With a harrumph, Marinette scoots to the edge of the chaise and sticks her chin out. She stares off to the side and sulks as he starts wiping the flour from her face. It becomes sticky goop as it streaks away, revealing skin gone rosy and a starscape of freckles. For a few minutes, he washes the mess away, pausing once to rinse the washcloth. Marinette isn’t over her strop when he starts at it again, but she does start talking again.

“It’s all Chloé’s fault,” she mutters, petulant.

“What’d she do?”

“Caused a ruckus while Alya and I were trying to go over the details of the Spring Formal with the class.”

That’s putting it lightly. Adrien had watched Chloé have an utter _meltdown_ that afternoon when Marinette had told the class that class delegates had voted on ‘Outer Space’ as the theme of the formal instead of Chloé’s desired ‘Masquerade’. She’d ranted, and raved, and practically foamed at the mouth as Alya and Marinette tried to calm - or at least contain - her. Finally, Marinette had dragged her out into the hallway for a near-screaming match so that the teacher could get the class back under control. Chloé had called her father and asked to go home, feigning a headache, but no doubt she’d had her revenge. Surely, she’d been the one to convince her father to order an obscene number of baked goods from the bakery as a means of getting back at Marinette. Fortunately (or unfortunately, given Marinette’s deep displeasure), she was as wicked as she was stupid. 

“Did you punch her?” he asks, though he already knows the answer.

“Of course not! I wouldn’t- I mean, I _want_ to, but I could never- What makes you think I’m capable of punching anyone?” she sputters.

Chat sweeps away the final patch of flour from her forehead. 

“Just a thought,” he says. With the washcloth, Chat gently taps the tip of her nose. A giddy heat rises in his chest as her eyes cross to follow the washcloth’s trajectory. “You’ve got pretty strong looking arms for being such a softy.” 

“I’m not a softy,” Marinette whines, tugging the washcloth out of his hand and tossing it in the direction of the sink. 

“Yes you are,” Chat teases. He plants his elbows on the either side of her knees and stares up at her. “Marinette Dupain-Cheng, the sweetest, kindest, gentlest girl in all of Paris.”

“Is that so?”

“ _Mais oui_.”

“Well then, clearly I’m not doing a good enough job,” Marinette says. Her quick grin lightens the exhaustion that had haunted her face only seconds before. 

In a flash, Marinette’s hands are on his shoulders, pushing him backwards. Caught off guard, Chat tips back, and Marinette rolls off of the chaise, following him down. She straddles him just long enough for his entire body to catch fire, then shifts to pin him bodily to the floor. He wrestles back, managing to slide his knee in between them and start levering her off of him. Marinette lets out a yelp, then freezes at how loud it was. It gives him the just the opening he needs to grab her by the waist and flip her to the side. They barely stifle giggles as the playful wrestling continues, and Chat is glad, for once, to have an excuse for why his heart is pounding so hard. 

...

Exam week.

Most of the class has straggled back from their various levels of illness. They’re hardly lively, however, at the prospect of two days of review followed by three solid days of testing. Even Chloé seems drained. 

“I’d rather diiiie than take this history exam. Bury me! Print my legacy in this nonsense book instead!” Alya moans from behind him. 

Adrien and Nino turn around to face the miserable-sounding girl. Marinette pats her friend’s shoulder consolingly. She glances up and Adrien and shoots him a sly little smile, as if to say _Look at this drama queen_. He’s not sure if Marinette has ever looked at _him_ that way before. Adrien blushes, unable to help his racing thoughts.

“You know,” Marinette starts, “I feel pretty good about what’s going to be on the test. I can help.”

“Me too,” Adrien adds. It’s not as though he’s spent the past two weeks “casually” paging through Marinette’s history textbook, or anything. “Wanna study together?”

Alya perks up at that, and Nino nods at his side. 

“That’s a great idea, dude. Between the two of you, we’d have some, like, study super team.”

Adrien glances over at Marinette, only to find her gaze skittering away nervously. Even though she’s been getting better at talking to him, it’s still a struggle. Sometimes he can’t help but wonder if there are two Marinettes: unapologetically bold, sassy Marinette, made just for Chat, and delightfully shy, sweet Marinette, impossible for Adrien to get close to. 

“Yeah, guys!” Alya says, enthusiasm rising, “Let’s have a study party today after school and knock this thing out!”

“I’m in,” Nino says.

Pulling out his phone, Adrien checks his schedule. There’s patrol later in the evening, but Nathalie had cleared any photoshoots this week to allow him to focus on finals. “I have fencing club right after school, but once that’s done, I’m free,” he confirms.

“I can do it,” Marinette says. 

“Well then that’s it,” Alya says, “We’ll all meet at Marinette’s place around, say, 5?”

“Alyaaa,” Marinette balks, “You can’t just volunteer my place. You know things are busy with the holidays!”

“But are you going to say no?” 

“...No…”

Scrunching her nose at her friend, Marinette quickly rattles off her address to Adrien. He feigns attention to her words and scribbles something down, more captivated by darling expression than writing out directions to a place he could find in his sleep. 

“Sounds great,” he says, and then, just because he can, “It’s a date!”

A sound akin to air leaving a balloon or, perhaps more accurate, a soul escaping a body, rushes from Marinette. Even still, she manages to keep eye contact and give him a resolute (though high-pitched), “Great.” 

Alya laughs, and laughs, and laughs.

…

At 4:50, on the dot, Nino texts him.

_hey bro, not going 2 b able 2 make it 2nite. dads having company over 4 dinner & i have 2 b ‘home’ & ‘presentable’_

Having arrived early, Adrien is hanging out in the park across the street from the Dupain-Cheng bakery. The urge to waltz in and see Marinette, immediately, was proving a hard one to fight, but the last thing he wants is to overwhelm her. Again. He’d planned on waiting until Nino showed, and going in together, but with Nino bailing, Adrien is left in a lurch. Should he go in? Just wait for Alya?

 _That stinks_ , Adrien responds, _Sorry to hear it! Have fun studying on your own_

 _Have fun studying with Mari_ Nino shoots back.

It’s a setup. 

Adrien leaps off of the bench and whips around to look at the bakery. No Marinette in sight, though that’s expected - she’s inside, waiting for them. But there’s no Alya in sight either, and it’s now 4:56. He would have noticed her passing by. 

He takes a few breaths to compose himself before crossing the street to the bakery. If he’s right and it _is_ a ploy, Adrien is going to have to be at the top of his game. He’ll have to be alone with Marinette for at least an hour and not act like Chat Noir. 

A bell chimes as he enters the bakery. The air is tinged with vanilla, flour, cinnamon, and the dry heat of ovens in the back. No question, then, why Marinette smells the way she does. A woman he recognizes as Marinette’s mother (only from pictures - she’s even lovelier in real life) turns from a rack of bread to smile. 

“Good afternoon, how can I help you?” 

Just like that, there’s no question as to where Marinette’s warmth comes from either. Adrien’s stomach sinks. What would this pleasant woman do if she knew that he snuck into her daughter’s bedroom every other night? He swallows, hard, and tries to work normal words out.

“Euh, I’m, ah, actually hear to see Marinette?”

Her mother’s face lights up. “You must be Adrien! Marinette mentioned you all would be studying together. Alya and Nino aren’t here yet, but Marinette’s upstairs.”

She comes up to the counter and unlatches the small swinging door to let him behind it. 

“You can go on up,” she says, gesturing to the door that must connect the bakery to the rest of the shop.

“T-thank you very much,” he says. Adrien puts on his best smile; Marinette’s mother seems perfectly charmed.

“Let Marinette know that her father will be bringing up some snacks in a bit,” she calls to him as he starts ascending the stairs. 

“Yes ma’am!”

Adrien follows the stairs to a small hallway and stops at the first door he sees. He takes yet another steadying breath. He knocks.

From the other side of the door comes an anguished shriek. 

“ALYA!” Marinette wails, “You can’t just- _oh god, I think I just heard a knock, he’s here-_ ,” her voices drops down to an angry hiss, “ _I hate you so much right now._ ”

Definitely a setup. 

“Fine, I’m going, I’m going. Enjoy failing your history exam.”

The door swings open, and Marinette hits him with luminous smile.

“Adrien, hi!” she chirps. Her voice is a little higher than normal, and her chest heaves with exertion, but all-in-all, Marinette is managing composed better than he is.

“Hey there P-Marinette,” Adrien says, stepping through the door. On the inside, he cringes. Already, he was messing this up. “Were you just on the phone with Alya?”

The angry puff of air she exhales is strong enough to blow her bangs. Marinette crosses her arms over her chest and with a sour look says, “Yeah. She has to bail. Apparently her dad is dragging her whole family over to his friend’s house for dinner, and she can’t get out of it.”

“Huh, weird. Nino just texted me saying he can’t come because _his_ dad is having company over for dinner and he has to be there.”

Apparently, all it takes to get Marinette to look Adrien in the eye and speak in clear sentences is to get her riled up and pissed off. 

“Of _course_ he did,” she says, “Their parents have been friends for ages.”

“Wh- really?”

Marinette nods, “Their dads used to work together for Minitel in the 90s. Alya and Nino’s families spent practically every weekend hanging out, and now they’re conspiring against us!”

She throws her hands up in frustration, then stops as she reflects on what she said. It’s amusing, watching Marinette’s emotive face as she parses the situation; he particularly enjoys trying to figure out what she’s thinking. Right now, it’s got to be something along the lines of _Oh no, he can’t know I like him but there’s no other way of explaining why they’d be working against us and how does that even make sense otherwise, Marinette you’re so dumb you’ll spoil everything-_

“Well, their loss,” Adrien says. He shrugs and hikes his school bag further up his shoulder. All he wants is to set her at ease. “We can still study though, right?”

“Yeah,” Marinette says, nodding fervently, “We can, uh, study up in my room.”

Like her bedroom, everything in her home is either colored or accented in pink. What Adrien had assumed was a personal decor choice proves to be a family trait; it floods his chest with a silly buzz. She leads him through the living room, pointing out the kitchen and downstairs bathroom, then takes him upstairs. He recognizes the little hallway he’d gone down to get to the upstairs bathroom when Marinette had been sick. That wasn’t all that long ago, but somehow, Adrien feels like his entire life has changed since. They go up another small set of stairs, and are in her room.

“Well, here we are!” 

Marinette spreads her arms with a silent ‘ta-da’. Her face scrunches with an anxious smile, as if awaiting his judgement. Everything looks just as he left it the night before, with one noticeable exception: all of his posters and pictures are gone. Her computer monitor glows innocently, a cute selfie of her and Alya at what looked like a Jagged Stone concert. Adrien can’t very well complain about the absence of something he shouldn’t know about, so instead he grins and goes, “Awesome! I like your room. It’s very you.”

She splutters out a thanks and ushers them over to her desk. As Marinette is pulling out her history textbook, she pauses and turns towards her bed. For a long moment, she stares at the trapdoor above it. 

“Do you have the review sheet?”

Marinette _jumps_ and swings back around to stare at him, wide-eyed. 

“Oh yeah, no, I pulled it off of the school website and printed it last night,” she says. She sifts through her bag for a moment, glances at her windows, then goes at it again. After some searching, Marinette pulls it out and hands it to him.

“Thanks! Let’s get started!”

He cracks his textbook open on the desk as she settles into her desk chair, backwards, and holds her book in her hands. They start with the first section, swapping the review back and forth and quizzing each other on its questions. For every question one of them didn’t know, they’d start flipping through the book in search of the answer. 

Without fail, each time there was an intermission to look for an answer, Adrien caught Marinette lose focus. She’d page through the textbook slowly, not even looking down, and more than once skipping over the chapter they were covering. Each time, she was glancing up at the door above her bed or staring out her windows. Each time, she would startle when he spoke.

It was bizarre, bordering on annoying, until Adrien caught the worried frown that crossed her face when her attention strayed. 

_She was expecting Chat to show up unannounced._

_She was waiting on him._

There was no set schedule to when he showed up as Chat. Typically it was after a patrol, and not always every night, but there were exceptions. He’d shown up in the early evening before, and he’d been slinking around more often as of late. Marinette had to be freaking out, thinking that Chat would drop in at any moment and reveal to Adrien - her crush - that he’d been spending time with her. The thought runs rampant in his mind for the next 15 minutes, even as they work their way through the review. 

“And… that’s it.”

“Huh?” he asks, distracted.

“That’s it, that was the last question on the review,” Marinette says. She looks surprised, and flips the paper over to see if there was more. Blank. 

“Wow, we did really well. It’s been, what, thirty minutes?”

Marinette unlocks her phone and confirms: they haven’t been studying for all that long. Disappointment wraps around his shoulders before resting on his chest. He’d wanted to spend more time with her, as Adrien. 

“I guess… there’s not much of a point studying if we both know all of the material. What did you do, memorize the book?” Marinette says, tapping at the cover of his book. 

“Ha ha, yeah, sorry. Sort of, I guess,” he says, “You would not _believe_ how much downtime there is when you’re waiting for a photoshoot to move on or wrap up. It was study or be bored out of my mind. Sometimes both.”

“Downtime, what even is that?” Marinette asks, propping her chin in her hand, “I feel like I never get any time to myself, let alone _free_ time.”

“No time to yourself? Sounds like someone is popular.” He arches an eyebrow and winks, suggestively. 

The Marinette Adrien should know is supposed to fall apart at such an insinuation. Instead, Marinette snorts - his favorite sound, after her laugh. “Not even. I’ve just got this one friend who is constantly over. It’s starting to feel like he lives here.” She glances up at her windows.

Oh. Interesting. Adrien’s never heard Marinette mention him to anyone at school, not even Alya. She couldn’t have - Alya’s journalistic streak was too strong not to fully investigate who Marinette was spending her time with, and once Alya figured out it was _Chat Noir_ , well… Adrien would have caught something about it. He straightens in the chair. 

“Anyone I know?” he asks. 

Beyond a doubt, Marinette hesitates. It may not have been apparent to anyone else, but to Adrien it’s obvious that she’s scrambling for a cover story. 

“Probably not,” Marinette says, voice rising, “He’s the son of one of my mom’s friends. He, euh, goes to a different school.” She flaps her hand, a poor imitation of acting dismissive.

He knows he’s not Chat right now, and knows he may not get away with it. But the situation is too perfect not to try.

“Are the two of you… dating?”

It’s unfair of him, but Adrien loves watching Marinette go pink, loves when he’s the cause. Marinette gapes at him, jaw dropped. It takes her a good minute to compose herself enough to gasp, “No!”

Well, she didn’t have to sound so affronted about it. Marinette’s gaze goes straight to the hatch above her bed, as if she expected Chat to come tumbling down through it at any moment. “We’re friends,” she says hurriedly. Her blush grows, spreading up her neck and more deeply across her cheeks.

The next question would be impossible to ask casually, even if Adrien weren’t also the ‘friend’ being discussed. He has to hope that Marinette is too embarrassed already to notice anything out of place about his inquisitiveness.

“Do you want to date him?”

She utterly freezes, color draining from her face. 

“You're so nosy!” Marinette exclaims as soon as she recovers. Her eyes dart from him to the balcony outside. “Now if we're not studying history you can use your big nosy brain to help me review for physics. Nosy nose.”

Adrien hears no denial through her babbling. It’s not a yes, but it’s not a no, either.

…

Ladybug is so out of sorts that night that even Chat, consumed with Marinette’s not-quite-really-an-admission from earlier that evening, notices. 

“Are you feeling alright, Ladybug?” he asks once they come to stop on a rooftop.

“I’m fine,” she snaps, leveling him with a glare. 

Chat rears back and raises his hands, placating.

“I'm sorry for asking, I didn't mean anything by it.”

Her face softens in an instant, slipping from annoyed to apologetic. Ladybug links her hands behind her back and stares at the ground. Her cheeks match her mask.

“No, Chat, I'm sorry. I've had a stressful day and things are just really complicated and, it’s not your-” Ladybug bites off her words, the unspoken _fault_ ringing in the air regardless. “It’s just complicated,” she reiterates.

A duo of constant motion, they've been on this roof longer than usual. On any other night, Ladybug would be goading him to keep moving, to stop running his mouth and _keep up_. But whatever gave her pause earlier today is leaking into their patrol now.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks softly.

“No.”

There's no force to the word; he isn't convinced.

“Are you sure? You know you can always talk to me, Ladybug.”

“Thanks, Chat. But I'm sure. Let’s… let’s just get going.”

Her voice peters out, resigned. Ladybug unslings her yo-yo and aims it at an awning on the building across the street. She chucks the yo-yo mechanically, and swings across without any of her normal fluidity. Chat is left on the roof, alone. 

…

Chat hadn't planned on stopping in at Marinette’s - he’d been there only hours ago, albeit in a different form - but that doesn't keep him from passing by on his way home. It’s not all that late, maybe 9 or so, but all of the lights in her room are off and the door from her balcony shut. For a split-second, Chat swears he sees movement through one of the windows, a dark shadow crossing by, but it’s gone an instant later. With nothing left to do, Chat continues on his way to the mansion.

… 

Winter holidays are an agonizing blend of homework, photoshoots, and requisite attendance at awful socialite parties (many featuring Chloé). He sees Ladybug only a handful of times, and Marinette even less, though not for lack of trying. 

Chat is able to stop in for an hour or so the night after Christmas. To his surprise, Marinette is waiting for him on the balcony, a small tin of sweets between her cold-numbed hands. He sets the gift aside long enough to warm her hands in his. 

Adrien rations the assortment of macarons, marzipan cats, and, shockingly, sugar cookies long enough to get him through the New Year. He's never been happier for the first day of school as he is when break finally ends.

...

“And it’s just like - _argh_ \- he doesn’t care that I don’t want to follow in his footsteps. I have no interest in the family business, but Père just doesn’t seem to get that!” Chat runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. Marinette nods along with him. 

“You should tell your father that you’re your own person. That you appreciate what he’s done for you and respect his opinions, but that you have to make your own decisions. You’re not going to be living with him forever, and you’re certainly not some kind of doll for him to display on a shelf!”

His story has Marinette whipped into a frenzy; Chat loves when she gets like this - so passionate, so indignant - but he almost feels worse, seeing her fired up on his behalf. It’s not like he can march her into his father’s office and let her loose. All he’s done is upset her over something neither of them can change.

He rolls from his stomach to his back and lets his head dangle off of the chaise lounge. Marinette carves circles in the carpet around the chair as she paces, buzzing angrily under her breath. How like them: him, indolent, lounging; her, a whirlwind, a force. 

“It’s just not right!” she exclaims for the countless time. 

Marinette’s legs stop in front of him, and Chat slowly drags his gaze from her knees up. Even upside-down and red from anger, Marinette is a vision to behold. With her fists balled on her hips as they are, Chat is given a rare glimpse of the neat swells of muscle that define her arms. For not the first time, the thought that Marinette could likely take him in a real fight crosses his mind. He lets his eyes wander across her shoulders and dip down to her collarbone before making their way to her face. By the time Chat gets there, Marinette’s noticed what he’s doing. The frown lines that worry her brow are swept away, and in their place, an incredulous expression. She looks down at him and raises an eyebrow, lips pursing into a plump pout. 

“Chat?”

Awkward as it is on his back and half-off of the chaise, Chat shrugs. “It’s much nicer to look at you than think about my father,” he says with a wink. 

The redness in her cheeks deepens. As if she could cover it, Marinette rolls her eyes and starts pacing again. 

“You still should talk to him,” she says. There’s less fire and more fumble to her words as she tries to steer the conversation back on track. Marinette, ever concerned, even in the face of his flirtation. She’s gotten no better at resisting his obvious attempts - if anything, she’s doing worse. That observation is about the only thing keeping Chat’s spirits up at the moment. 

“If only it were that easy,” Chat sighs, “Funny, you’d think the hero of Paris, constantly tasked with taking down fearsome monsters, would have enough guts to stand up to his father for once.”

She pauses mid-step, this time somewhere off to his left. He can hear her shuffling, perhaps shifting nervously from foot to foot. It was a regular habit of hers, to bounce back and forth while mulling over her next words.

“Just because you’re a hero doesn’t mean you have to be perfect. Or even have your life together. You’re human, you know?”

 _Now tell my father that,_ Chat thinks. Rather than voice his feelings, though, Chat reaches out in Marinette’s general direction and makes a grabbing motion with his hand. His hand floats alone in the air for close to thirty seconds before Marinette succumbs to his request and takes it. He tugs her over until she gracefully sinks to the floor and leans back on the side of the chaise. Her arm stretches up over her head to keep her fingers laced with his. 

They’ve been here before, in this exact position. It’s been happening more frequently as Chat opens up about his life beyond the mask and Marinette ponders and vents over her hopes and dreams. Marinette’s hand rests in his, a reassuring weight. For Chat, joining their hands is easy as breathing, as easy as whispering the magic words that grant him these precious hours. Chat rolls his head towards Marinette, only to find her gaze fixed on him already. Their noses brush. Chat blinks. 

For a long lull, they simply breathe. Chat can see each freckle that dots her nose and cheeks in stunning clarity. He can feel the warm puffs of air that pass through her just-parted lips. 

And then there is a stillness. Everything but his heart seems to stop. _That_ beats louder than ever. It’s impossible that Marinette doesn’t hear how his pulse picks up, how it crashes across the air between them. Her eyes are exceptionally blue. She bites her bottom lip. 

“Chat?” 

Whatever was there is shattered. The tension drains right to his stomach, leaving it feeling heavy and jumbled. Chat lets out a long breath.

She was so close. This time, for real, Chat is sure he wasn't imagining it. It was there - _they_ were there - just barely out of paw’s reach.

“Marinette?”

“Why do you tell me all of these things?”

Marinette locks her stare straight on the floor. Her feet tap lightly, but otherwise, she is motionless. The look of worry is back on her face.

Frowning, Chat flips back over onto his stomach and turns to face her properly. Their proximity takes the backseat to the flat drop of her voice. He would say anything to jump start the spark in her eyes, but in this case, he only has the truth.

“You’re my friend, and I trust you.”

It was a leap, to be sure. They’d never spoken of a label for what they had - friends, acquaintances, movie buddies, more - but he didn't think she would deny friend, not if she’d said it to Adrien. One didn't spend all of one’s free time in the company of an associate (though one certainly didn't look at a _friend_ the way Chat keeps finding himself staring at Marinette).

Marinette nods, unperturbed by the label. Still, her face remains frozen in worry.

“What about Ladybug? Don’t you trust her? Isn't she your friend?”

‘Ladybug’ comes out as a whisper on Marinette’s lips, as though she were afraid of speaking the name top loud and summoning the hero in question. It makes him uneasy.

“I trust Ladybug with my life,” Chat says firmly, “And that will never, ever change. She is my partner, my ally, and the one person who I'll always be perfectly synced with…”

From the way Marinette glances up at him, she must be able to hear the coming “But…”. He may as well not make her wait. 

“I trust Ladybug with my life, but… I don't know if I could trust her with _me_. Not like I can… with you.”

The past few weeks had found him honing in on this reckoning, though he’d hardly been able to put words to it. How could one string together a sentence that adequately describes the way his taut shoulders loosen the moment he sees her smile, or how heart picks up when her nose wrinkles at the mention of his father? And to contrast to the cool, smooth operation of him and Ladybug - coordinated, mechanical? Chat has to try.

“Ladybug is my partner. She is my friend. She is the only person who will ever understand what it means to be us - heroes, people given the mixed blessing and overwhelming responsibility of this crazy, magical gift. But… she doesn't want to know who I am. Not just the person I am behind the mask, but who I _really_ am, the one in between it all.”

Marinette wears a carefully neutral expression. Marinette listens in utter silence. There’s nothing reassuring about her lack of response. Chat plows forward.

“I’ve been thinking about it, trying to make sense of it. When I’m not Chat Noir, I’m not me, not really. I am my father’s son, I am little better than how he treats me - a doll with very particular expectations. Even when I’m at school, or with my friends, I can’t fully be me. And it’s worse, because they can’t know this other side of me, this whole ‘hero with weird powers’ me…” Chat sighs, letting his chin drop. He regrets glancing over at Marinette a moment later. She’s fighting to keep her poker face, but her tells come in the tightness of her lips and the way the muscles of her neck stand out. 

“But I don’t know who you are without the mask,” she says, sounding strained. 

Chat shakes his head. “You don’t have to, because that’s not me. It’s like… it’s like the person I really am is somewhere in the middle of unmasked me and Chat Noir. And when I’m around you…” the sigh that parts his lips is unreservedly dreamy, this time, “I don’t have to try to pretend. I trust you, Marinette. I trust you to listen, I trust you not to judge me, I trust you not to coddle me. I… I don’t think I could trust Ladybug to do the same. She’s so perfect, so focused, and if I slip up or show how weak I am… maybe she won’t want me as a partner anymore and-”

“You know that’s not true,” Marinette cuts in. With each passing word she’s losing her cool as her brows furrow and her mouth presses into a sharp, thin line. She won’t look at him, but from her profile Chat can still see the creases marring the corner of her eye.

“Even if it’s not,” he says, “She has a job to do, has a destiny to fulfill. It’s my place to help her, not to get in the way of that. Ladybug might push me to be a better hero, but you push me to be a better _person_ , Marinette. You see me for the person that I am. For better or for worse.”

“For better or for worse,” she echoes, and it’s then that the potency of his words resonates with him. It’s a confession straight from his lips. 

Chat lets the silence sit. He’s not sure there’s anything else he can say that wouldn’t sound like senseless repetition. From the corner of his eye, he watches Marinette. Emotions flicker across her face like a choppy silent film. Her cheeks puff out, then cave in, her eyes narrow and widen, and there’s even the faintest motion of her mouth, shaping soundless words. Then it stops. Her expression strengthens into something resolute. Certain. She nods to herself.

“I have expectations of you,” Marinette says.

Startled, it takes Chat a moment to formulate a response. “What kind?”

“I expect you to be honest with me. And I expect you to save Paris, every time. Just like Ladybug.”

Chat chuckles, relieved. “I would hope so. But you don’t expect me to be so serious, or noble, or better than anyone else.”

“Well duh,” Marinette says with a snort. She’s more relaxed than before, and leans her head back on the chaise. He gives her hand a squeeze, and she returns the gesture. 

Their conversation meanders back into little nonsenses, observations about the weather and recent akuma attacks, complaints about school and schedules. It looks and sounds like the back and forth of any other evening they spend together, but underneath the giggles and rolled eyes, there’s a new, effervescent anxiousness. Chat’s made a decision, and he thinks Marinette has too. He prays on his Miraculous that they’ve made the same one. 

…

If she knew he’d seen it, she’d kill him. There was no way Marinette would ever confess to what he’d witnessed - not under duress, not with all of the sweet talk in the world, never. It was something, Adrien was sure, Chat was never, _ever_ allowed to know. 

Without thought, Marinette passes up her answer sheet for the quiz their teacher is collecting. It’s obvious she thinks she has nothing to fear from boring, harmless Adrien.

By now he's figured out that Marinette is a doodler. No paper of hers goes untouched. But this quiz, this sheet, now this one is special.

All along the margins of her papers, images of cat paws and tiny black cat faces are enclosed in big, bubbly hearts. In the bottom corner, _Chaton_ is carefully penned and finished with another curling heart.

If he could, Adrien would snag her paper from the stack on his desk and stow it in his bag. He'd pull it out every night before he started his homework, or maybe before he fell asleep. Instead, Adrien stares as hard as he can at the looping hearts and does the best he can to remember.

…

“Adrien, your father would like to see you.”

Pausing his music, Adrien turns to shoot Nathalie a confused look. It was almost 11 at night - his father never asked to speak to him this late. Nathalie’s thin lips and high eyebrows reveal nothing about what is going on. He takes out his earbuds and shuts his math book. 

“Did he say what he wanted?”

She grimaces. “Only that he didn’t want to be kept waiting.”

That’s a bad sign. Adrien gets up and follows her to his father’s office.

“Père?” he asks once Nathalie has left and shut the door behind him.

Gabriel Agreste is not a particularly large man. Tall and lean, he doesn’t have much of a threatening build, nor does he take up much space. Nonetheless, Gabriel dominates the office - and by extension - the Agreste mansion. His presence rolls like a cold, thick fog through every floor and foyer, but it’s the worst where Adrien stands now. Gabriel glances up from the folio in his hand. His gaze hits Adrien in a single, icy burst. 

“What is this, Adrien?” he asks.

Right to the point, then.

“Pardon? I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”

With one hand Gabriel tugs a few glossy photos from the folio; with the other, he beckons Adrien over. He approaches his father’s desk, dreading what he knows he will see.

“ _What_ is _this_?” Gabriel repeats. He fans the pictures out on the desk before Adrien and taps on one of them with a calloused finger. 

The photos are from one of Adrien’s most recent photoshoots - he’d been modeling a few outfits from the new Agreste formal line. His face swims in front of him: Adrien, grey bespoke suit cut to fit his frame; Adrien, leaning against a shadowed pillar, coat swung over his shoulder. He looks comfortable, fluid, charming. He hadn’t seen any of the final runs from the shoot. Adrien actually quite likes them, and wonders which one Marinette will like best when they’re eventually released. Will one of these end up on her wall? He flushes at that.

“The proofs from the formal shoot?” Adrien says, “They turned out nicely. Your work never fails to impress.”

“I know the suit is fine,” Gabriel snaps, “I’m talking about _you_ Adrien. This work - if you can even call it that - is unacceptable.”

“What-”

Gabriel cuts him off with a glare, “This is a serious job, Adrien, and as my son, your performance should be nothing less than perfect. But look at these. You look like some soft, lovesick fool.”

Adrien rears back at the bite in his father’s words. “What are you talking about?”  
Without asking, Adrien snatches the photos off of the desk. He’d been tired during the shoot - there’d been a fairly relentless akuma attack the night before, meaning that it had been too late to visit Marinette. He remembered thinking about how ready he was to wrap up and go see her. He’d been thinking about Marinette.

Suddenly, Adrien sees exactly what his father is talking about. In each frame, his eyes crinkle softly and the whisper of a grin raises at his cheeks. He looks happier than he ever has before. It’s the best Adrien has ever seen himself.

“They look fine, father. Better than fine. We’re not selling suits to men who wear them, after all, are we? We’re selling them to the partners who want to see their man dressed up.”

It’s not what Gabriel wants to hear. His father has too much composure to run a hand through his coiffed hair, but Adrien can feel the frustration. 

“I’m selling couture, not fantasy,” Gabriel says coolly. 

“You’ll sell regardless, Father. Now, if that is all you need from me-” Adrien begins to turn, dismissing himself.

“This is not good enough. You are not doing good enough.” _You are not good enough_.

Gabriel doesn’t say it, but he doesn’t have to. 

_You should tell your father that you’re your own person,_ Marinette had said. 

“I’m not going to be your model for my entire life.”

His father raises an eyebrow, taken aback. They stare at one another for a long time. 

“I should hope not,” Gabriel finally says, “If you’re going to continue to work at _this_ level.” 

He reaches out and pulls the photos straight from Adrien’s hands. Dismissive, Gabriel tosses them back on the desk and taps something out on his laptop, as if Adrien isn’t even there anymore. 

Silently, Adrien backs out. 

Nathalie is waiting outside the door. She shoots him a sympathetic frown as he passes and ducks into the office. The wide hallway is empty. 

Adrien feels something break deep down.

He tears back to his room at a full run, barely slowing to burst through his door. Just like everything else in the mansion, his bedroom is too big, too cold, too much of Gabriel’s design. Plagg shoots up from under his bed, asks something, but Adrien can’t hear it over his panting breath or pounding heart. He doesn’t hear the words that cross his lips, either, but he feels the crackling of power rolling over his skin and through his bones. 

Everything becomes a blur after that. There’s the edge of a window on his palm. There’s the black sweep of night. There’s streaks of light and the crunch of brick and gravel under his boot. Chat Noir rips through the city like talons through flesh. People call out to him from the streets, but he doesn’t falter, doesn’t stop. 

He lands on Marinette’s roof with a clatter. The lights are out. Chat stumbles over to the skylight, barely catching himself when his knees buckle. The lights are out. 

“Marinette,” Chat calls, knocking at the trapdoor, “Marinette.”

With a clawed hand, Chat tries to pull it open. It’s locked, and he knows he shouldn’t, but the sting of his Cataclysm shoots from his gut up through his hand, ready, wanting. All he has to do is say the word. 

“Chat. It is late,” Marinette’s voice pieces from below, “And there are rules.”

She’s awake. Breath hits his lungs with an inhale Chat hadn’t known he’d been reeling for. 

“Marinette, I- I know, I can’t- I just- my father-” Chat sobs.

The trapdoor flies open. Chat only sees her face for a beat before it becomes blurry with his tears. He blinks them away, but they well up again. His mouth opens to speak, but only wheezing gasps come out. 

“Oh, Chat, Chaton,” Marinette says, standing on her bed to raise herself part of the way onto the balcony, “Oh Kitty, oh no…”

Marinette wraps her arms around his shoulders and draws him close. “Chat, Chat, shhh…” Her hands stroke up and down his back, soft and soothing. “Come here…”

He shuffles nearer. With strength that should come as no surprise to him, Marinette guides him down through the trapdoor without releasing him from her hold. Chat’s knees hit her bed. 

“You’re okay,” she continues, “You’re here, you’re okay, Chat.” 

Chat sniffles weakly and tries to swallow a whimper. He fails. A single thumb right along the bottom of his mask, wiping away tears he hadn’t felt fall. He raises his gaze to her. Everything about her is soft, from her sad smile to the blue of her eyes. Another sob escapes him. 

Marinette pulls him to her chest. He rests his head on her shoulder, tucks his face into the crook of her neck, and cries. 

Later, when she cards a hand through his hair and lays them both down on her bed, he begins to speak. It starts as a croak, but soon the words flow. She listens and presses a kiss to his forehead when he starts to weep again. 

...

This time when he wakes up unexpectedly, he is warm. 

He cracks open an eye. Cocooned in pink. A sliver of dark hair. The susurrous of a breath not his own. 

_Marinette_. Dieu, he’d fallen asleep. He’s in Marinette’s bed. _They’d_ fallen asleep, because there she is, face inches away from his, back pressed to his chest. And there he is: the human embodiment of a blush, desperately wishing he could control his blood flow, hand resting on her waist as though he’d been holding her in his sleep.

His bare hand.

How Marinette doesn’t wake up, Adrien has no clue. He chokes back a shout and yanks his hand away. Adrien touches under his eye and feels only skin. _Oh no, oh no, oh no-_

There’s got to be a way out of this. Adrien sits up as gradually as he can, freezing when Marinette stirs in her sleep. Looking around, he spots Plagg curled up on a pillow that had been abandoned at the foot of the bed. He has to find some way to wake Plagg up, feed him, get him to transform, and sneak out. The odds are far from in his favor. 

Marinette shifts again, this time babbling breathy nonsense. She pouts a little in her sleep and rolls over towards him. How close to wakefulness Marinette is, Adrien can’t tell, but her eyes stay firmly shut as her fingers stretch out and latch onto his shirt. 

If this is how Adrien dies, then at least he went out happier than he’s ever been before. 

Nonetheless, he has to do something, and fast. Marinette had brought two blankets up - the one she is on top of, and the one he is under. Adrien wriggles and tugs at the blanket until it fully covers him, face and all. Marinette mumbles something when she loses contact with his shirt. His movement wakes Plagg, who floats over a few seconds later.

“Well this is funny,” Plagg says, doing nothing to keep his voice low.

“Plagg!” Adrien hisses, “Get in here!”

Adrien opens a small hole in the blanket to glare out at Plagg. The kwami is ignoring him, playing with his tail instead. Scowling, Adrien grabs Plagg out of the air and pulls him under the blanket. 

Plagg squirms in Adrien’s grasp until he lets him go. “Rude!” Plagg exclaims.

“Plagg, shush, you’re going to get us caught!”

“No, Loverboy, you are going to get us caught. Frankly, it’s a miracle that she hasn’t figured you out yet.” Plagg crosses his arms over his chest and puffs up. “I keep doing you these favors, and you keep messing things up - guess that bad luck really is rubbing off.”

With that, Plagg sinks back onto the bed and folds some of the blanket over him. Adrien slumps over, trying not to groan. How out of control has his life gotten that _Plagg_ is lecturing him? Very, but then he hears Marinette murmur, “Chat?” and decides that it is worth it.

“Marinette? Marinette!” 

The mattress creaks as she moves towards the sound of his voice. Her hands find him again. She tries to pull at his waist, but loses her grip on the blanket.

“Chaaaat, go back to sleep,” she mumbles, “I’m tired.”

“Marinette, I’m so sorry, but I need you to-”

“If you… don’t lay back down…” a yawn interrupts her sleep-addled words, “I’ll kick you out.”

“That’s the thing, Princess,” Adrien says, “I can’t. I know it’s late, but I need you to get me some cheese, please.”

“Cheese… _cheese?_ ” Her voice clears in an instant. There’s a very good chance that ‘cheese’ is the first word Marinette has actually processed. 

“Please. My… my transformation’s worn off.”

Marinette sits straight up. 

“Chat?”

“Yeah. Or, well, technically no.”

“We fell asleep and… the transformation that makes you Chat ran out. You’re… whoever you are.”

“I am.” Adrien’s mouth goes dry.

The bed dips right in front of him from her weight. More than anything, he wishes he could see her, because for once, Adrien has no clue how she must be looking at him. Expressive Marinette - was she curious? Concerned? Angry, that he’d fallen asleep in her bed, at her side? Happy that he had? She takes a deep breath.

Her hand reaches out, touching him briefly - knee, chest, shoulder - and then retreating, probing until she finds the top of his head. It’s there that Adrien has gathered the two edges of the blanket and drawn them tightly together. Her hand settles there, on the seam. 

Adrien can’t control his sharp inhale as his heart plummets to his stomach. All it would take is one simple gesture, for Marinette to grab onto the edge of the blanket and pull, and his secret identity would be no more. The growing wave of fear surges in his chest.

What if Marinette was disappointed that it was him, Adrien? Would she be excited? Surely by now she’d figured out that Chat’s care for her extended beyond just that of a friend. Would she be excited, to find that her longtime crush returned her feelings? Or would she feel betrayed by the knowledge that Adrien had deceived her this entire time? Would she falter back to treating him like Adrien, struggling to speak around him? Or worse, would Marinette stop talking to him altogether? His grip on the blanket tightens.

Marinette’s fingers curl into a fist, blanket secured between them. This was it. It was over. One heartbeat, two, three, any moment now, she would reveal him.

Her grip loosens, her hand flattens on his head. Slowly, Marinette traces the palm of her hand down the side of his face, stopping when she feels the turn of his cheek. It is there her hand stays, cupping blanket and cheek gently.

“You said you needed cheese, right?” Marinette whispers. 

Adrien thinks he might be in love.

His throat tightens, making it impossible to speak. He nods, hoping Marinette can see the motion through the blankets. Without another word, Marinette drops her hand and climbs down from the bed. She shuffles to the door, pausing long enough to whisper, “What kind?”

“The smellier the better.”

And then he’s alone. 

As soon as her bedroom door clicks closed, Adrien parts the blanket and takes a gasping breath. The air is cool, but laden with everything that was happening - still better than the warm, stagnant feel of being under the comforter. Jostled, Plagg cracks open a glowing green eye. 

“You owe me big time,” he says.

It’s true, but Adrien’s not feeling all that put together in the moment. “Don’t you think you could have held on a little longer? It’s not like we’d been battling, or-” he glances over at Marinette’s clock, “That we’d been transformed for all that long. It’s been like four hours!”

Plagg rolls over until he’s sitting, and stares up and Adrien. He doesn’t look angry, like usual, and his little voice is contemplative when he says, “Don’t you think it’s time for her to know?”

Adrien is saved from answering Plagg’s question by Marinette’s soft footsteps in the hallway. Quickly, he draws the blanket back over his head. Plagg snorts.

“I did the best I could,” Marinette says once she’s back up in the bed. He can feel her shifting nervously on the mattress. He’s about to respond when Plagg, in a fit of energy (typical) zips up and worms his way through the blanket.

“Plagg-!” Adrien exclaims, but it’s too late: the kwami escapes. 

“Oh!” comes Marinette’s sound of surprise, followed by the loud sounds of Plagg munching on cheese.

“Sorry,” Adrien says, “That’s Plagg. He’s, uh, called a kwami. He’s kind of the magical… thing… that lets me become Chat Noir. You’d think he was a pig though, with the way he eats cheese.”

Marinette giggles, breaking some of the tension. “He’s cute,” she says, “Makes me wonder how we still end up with _you_ instead.”

“Hey!” Adrien protests at the same moment Plagg pauses to snark, “I like her.”

Marinette reaches out again and blindly touches him until she finds the top of his head and pats it consolingly. 

“I’m kidding, you know.”

“Does that mean you think I’m cute, Princess?”

“I think you’d be a lot cuter if you hadn’t woken me up at 2 in the morning asking for cheese,” Marinette deadpans. 

“Noted,” Adrien says, cringing under the blanket, “Thank you, Marinette.”

“Of course. Anytime.” Her voice is soft.

He smiles, though she can’t see it, and imagines her smiling too. 

Plagg ruins the moment with a belch bigger than his body. It makes Marinette giggle again though, so Adrien figures he can forgive him this time. 

“She did well, in case you were worried,” Plagg says. Adrien is about to reply with an ‘Of course I wasn’t concerned,’ when Plagg continues cryptically, “I’ve seen her make worse choices over the years.”

“What are you going on about, Plagg?” Adrien asks. 

“Ti-”

“Time to go,” Marinette says, sharply cutting Plagg off, “It’s late, and if we keep this up, it’ll wake my parents.”

“R-right. Sorry. Thanks. Come on Plagg, Claws Out!”

Plagg whines as he’s sucked back through the opening of the blanket and into the ring. Bright green flashes around Adrien, transformation just beginning as he hears Marinette mutter, “ _Claws out._ Naturally.”

Transforming in such a tight space is new, though not unwelcome. As it turns out, he doesn’t need to be in motion for his mask or ears to form. Perhaps the dramatics were by Plagg’s choice. 

The blanket weighs down his ear. Satisfied that he is once again Chat, he pulls the comforter off. Marinette, looking a little starstruck, is the first thing he sees. His dark vision allows him to see the pearly line of teeth that bites at her bottom lip. 

“Miss me?” he purrs.

It snaps Marinette out of her daze. She shoves him in the shoulder. “You were here the whole time, idiot.”

“Will you miss me when I’m gone, then?”

Her hand is still at his shoulder, but a moment later, her lifts it and settles it on his cheek. Without the blanket between them, her touch is cool, cool enough to burn him then and there. 

“I suppose I’ll miss you, _Chaton_. Now get going, you can’t stay here all night.”

…

“Marinette?”

“Mmm?” She looks up from her homework, but doesn’t turn around.

“May I kiss you?”

Her pen falls still. He’s been around Marinette enough to recognize the way her eyes widen and her mouth cuts into a stiff smile when she’s trying to pass off as calm. Closing her book, Marinette twists in her chair to face him. 

“Why would you want to do that, silly?” On a page, her words might sound cool, dismissive, but to his ears it comes out as a breathless squeak. The rush gives him the push he needs. 

“Because I think I like you. Very much.”

Marinette goes red to the ears. “Are you- you’re teasing me, right?”

He shakes his head. “There are plenty of things I would tease you about, Princess, but this is not one of them.”

“You want to kiss me,” she says.

“Yes.”

“Because you like me.”

“Very, very much so,” Chat insists.

He’s been thinking about it all week, since the night he woke up in her bed. It occupied every second of every day: from school, to shoot, to patrol. Even Ladybug had mentioned his starry-eyed distraction. Chat had a friend in Ladybug, but Marinette…

“Really?”

“Absolutely.”

Chat stands up from the chaise and walks over to her desk. She doesn’t pull away, only follows his movement with her eyes until she is looking up at him. Gently, he takes one of her hands and cradles it in his. 

“Marinette Dupain-Cheng,” he says solemnly, “Will you do me the honor of being my very first kiss?”

Marinette rolls her eyes. “Are you always going to be so dramatic about it?”

Knocked off balance, Chat’s carefully practiced suavity loses traction to a stammered, half-baked series of syllables. He rubs the back of his neck and tries to get back on track.

“Come here,” Marinette sighs. Using the hand he holds as leverage, Marinette drags him to her. 

And then her lips are on his. 

Chat feels her from his lips to his toes and back. He shifts, leaning in enough to press his mouth to hers more firmly. Marinette pushes back, skin soft and hot. For a long time, they’re held there, indulging in the sensation. Maybe Chat is just imagining things, but he thinks he can feel her pulse fluttering in his lips. 

He starts to move away, but Marinette doesn’t allow it. Her hand withdraws from his and her arms encircle his neck. She takes a breath, the motion drawing her lips across hers. Her lips keep moving, stirring him into action: Chat tilts his head, allowing him to drag his bottom lip across hers. Soon, Marinette is mirroring his movement and building on it. She pulls away and darts back in, kissing him with renewed heat. 

From then on, there’s nothing slow or sweet about it. Animal that he is, Chat’s teeth come out, biting at Marinette’s lower lip. Her gasp goes straight to his core, and he does it again. He feels her nails digging into his lower back, but doesn’t remember when they’d slid down. It seems impossible that they could be any closer, but Marinette succeeds in eliminating more space between them when her tongue skims the dip between his lips. Chat lets her in - how could he do anything but?

Never before has Chat felt his entire body thrum like this, not even after his first transformation. Her tongue slides against his, curious, probing. Marinette teases a moan from him, whether she realizes it or not, but regardless she echoes the sound, emboldened. Marinette has always been warmth, but now she is fire, and he melts under her very touch. 

When Marinette pulls him onto her lap, Chat experiences a whole new form of ecstasy. How they balance on the spinning desk chair, Chat doesn’t know, nor does he care. His hands grip her waist, and then there is nothing between them. She starts to protest when his lips move from hers, but they die away when they recenter on the silky expanse of her neck. Each gentle nip summons a low mew from her throat. 

“Chat,” she breathes, and it drives his tongue and teeth straight up to the sweet flesh of her earlobe. The reaction is better than Chat could have anticipated when she squirms under him, against him.

They kiss and kiss until Chat’s lost all track of time, until nothing else matters but the girl whose lips study every accessible, feature of his face, from his jaw, to his cheek, to his brow, to his eyelids, to his forehead. When they break apart, Marinette refuses to untangle her fingers from his hair. His eyes refuse to peel away from hers.

“You lied to me, Chat,” Marinette finally says, voice hushed, “You _were_ teasing me.”

“Wha-?”

“You are an awful-” she ducks back in, surprising him with a quick kiss, “Awful-” another kiss, “ _Tease_.”

She looks at him hungrily, and he understands.

“Well then, Princess. What are you going to do about it?”

“Kiss you again, silly Kitty.”

Chat gladly obliges.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to outsidethecavern and arejayelle (on tumblr) for being amazing and destroying me with teases of fanart, gosh guys!
> 
> Feel free to drop in and say hi: brettanomycroft.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> CHECK OUT THIS AMAZING FANART MADE FOR CHAPTER 2: http://outsidethecavern.tumblr.com/post/136756861444/i-dont-know-what-im-doing-but-i-have-jumped-on
> 
> This was written as the first part of a Christmas gift for the lovely arejayelle on tumblr, who has endured their enfant terrible being incredibly slow with writing for about 100 years now. Merci! 
> 
> I can't thank the Miraculous Ladybug community on tumblr and on AO3 enough for all of their support on my fics, and am thrilled to be writing more. Feel free to stop by and say hi over at brettanomycroft.tumblr.com


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